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ft|TMKILUNG 

roeilCATION 


TETRAHEDR 
OF  SPACE 

A i¥a//  of  fame  C/a 
0ti  P.  SCHUYLER 
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you’re  that  man,  here’s  something  that  will 
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Not  a magic  formula — not  a get-rich-quick 
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Of  course,  you  need  something  more  than  just  the 
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—be  willing  to  study  earnestly,  thoroughly. 

Still,  wouldn’t  it  be  worth  your  while  to  sacrifice  some 
of  your  leisure  in  favor  of  interesting  home  study — over 
a comparatively  brief  period  in  your  life?  Always  pro- 
vided that  the  rewards  were  good — a salary  of  $3,000 
to  $10,000? 

An  accountant’s  duties  are  interesting,  varied  and  of 
real  worth  to  his  employers.  He  has  standing! 

Do  you  feel  that  such  things  aren’t  for  you?  Well, 
don’t  be  too  sure.  Very  possibly  they  can  be! 

Why  not,  like  so  many  before  you,  investigate 
LaSalle’s  modern  Problem  Method  of  training  for  an 
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Just  suppose  you  were  permitted  to  work  in  a large 
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expert  accountant.  Suppose,  with  his  aid,  you  studied 
accounting  principles  and  solved  problems  day  by  day 
— easy  ones  at  first — then  the  more  difficult  ones.  If  you 
could  do  this — and  if  you  could  turn  to  him  for  advice 
as  the  problems  became  complex — soon  you’d  master 
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_ You  cover  accountancy  from  the  basic  Principles 
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Your  progress  is  as  speedy  as  you  care  to  make  it — • 
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Will  recognition  come?  The  only  answer,  as  you  know, 
is  that  success  does  come  to  the  man  who  is  really 
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For  accountants,  who  are  trained  in  organization  and 
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Starting  Next  Issue:  THIRTY-TWO  ADDITIONAL  PAGES! 


Vol  T8,  No.  1 A THRILLING  PUBLICATION  September,  1948 


A.  Complete  Norel 

What  Nad  UniTcrse 

By  BREDRIC  BROWN 

When  the  Grst  moon  rocket'  fell  back  to  earth 
with  a flash,  Keith  Winton  found  himself  cata- 
pulted into  a world  that  couldn’t  be — a fabulous 
globe  where  men  in  jalopies  were  space  masters!  1 1 

A Hall  of  Fame  Norelel 

TETRAHEDRA  OF  SPACE P.  Schuyler  Miller  82 

Only  a quartet  of  Earthmen  stood  between  the  Mercurian  invaders  and 
planetary  conquest!  A classic  reprinted  by  popular  demand 

Short  Stories 

RAT  RACE Dorothy  and  John  de  Courcy  72 

The  Rat-men’s  empire  spread  ever  outward  until  it  engulfed  the  world 

SHENADUN John  D.  MacDonald  102 

Explorer  Mitchell  battles  to  conquer  the  challenge  of  the  mountain 

SANATORIS  SHORT-CUT Jack  Vance  113 

Mathematics  is  Magnus  Ridolph’s  weapon  against  a pirate  of  space 

Special  Features 

THE  ETHER  VIBRATES The  Editor  6 

A department  for  readers,  including  announcements  and  letters 

FIRST  TARGET  IN  SPACE R.  L.  Farnsworth  98 

The  president  of  the  United  States  Rocket  Society  discusses  the  Moon 

SCIENCE  FICTION  FAN  PUBLICATIONS A Review  138 

Cover  Painting  by  Earle  Bergey — Illustrating  “What  Mad  Universe” 


STABTIilNQ  STORIES.  Published  every  other  month  by  Better  Publications,  Inc.,  N.  L.  Pines,  President,  at  4600  Diverse^ 
Are.,  Chicago  39,  111.  Editorial  and  executive  offices,  10  East  40th  St.,  New  Tork  16,  N.  Y.  Entered  as  second-class  matter 
November  22,  1946,  at  the  post  office  at  Chicago,  Illinois,  under  the  act  of  March  3,  1879.  Copyright,  1948,  by  Better 
PublicatlMis,  Inc.  Snbscription  (12  issues),  $2.40;  single  copies,  $.20;  fweign  uad  Canadi^  postage  extra.  In  cc^re- 
spending  with  this  magazine  please  include  your  postal  z<xte  number,  if  any.  Manuscripts  will  not  be  returned  unless 
accompanied  by  self-addressed,  stamped  envelopes  and  are  submitted  at  the  author’s  risk.  Nam^  of  all  characters  us^ 
^ storl^  and  semi-fiction  articles  are  fictitious.  If  the  iMune  ot  any  living  persem  or  existing  institution  is  used,  it  is  a 
coincidence.  PRINTED  ZN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


MO  SECmM  SC/CC£SS  / 


The  formula  for  success  in  industry  and  business 
is  an  open  book — no  secret  about  it  at  all.  Promo- 
tion comes  when  you’ve  trained  yourself  to  han- 
dle bigger  j obs,  prepared  for  larger  responsibilities. 

Such  training  you’ll  find  in  a library  of  ex- 
tremely literal  books — and  it’s  up  to  you  to  open 
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mastered  their  contents.  You  can  do  this  in  your 
spare  time  for  these  are  the  easy-to-understand 
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Schools  with  the  teacher, “built  rightin.” 

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in  every  business  and  industrial  field.  These  thou- 
sands are  the  proof  of  the  familiar  saying,  “To- 
day’s I.  C.  S.  student  is  tomorrow’s  leader.” 
Mark  and  mail  the  coupon  and  you  can  be  on 
the  way  to  joining  them.  It  brings  you  full  infor- 
mation on  the  subject  you’re  interested  in.  Act 
today — if  you’re  serious  about  becoming  a success! 


^NTERNATfONAlrCORRESPONDENCE  SCHOOLS 


BOX  3967-M.  SCRANTON  9,  PENNA. 

Without  cost  or  obligation,  please  send  me  full  particulars  about  the  course  BEFORE  which  I have  marked  X: 


Air  Conditioning  aind 
Plumbing  Courses 

O Air  Conditioning 
□ Heating 

D Refrigeration  _ 
Chemistry  Courses 


D Chemical  Engineering 
■ ‘ y,  Analytical 


□ Chemistry,  , 

□ Chemistry,  Industrial 

□ Chemistry,  Mfg.  Iron  & Steel 

□ Petroleum  Refining 

□ Pulp  and  Paper  Making 
Civil  Engineering,  Archttec' 
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□ Architecture 

D Architectural  Dnafting 

□ Bridge  and  Building  Forofflaa 
D Building  Estimating 

□ Civil  Engineering 

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□ Contracting  and  Building 

□ Highway  Engineering 

□ Lumber  Dealer 

□ Reading  Structural  Blueprints 

□ Sanitary  Engineering 

□ Structural  Drafting 


□ Structural  Engineering 

□ Surveying  and  Mapping 
Communleatiens  Courses 

D Plumbing  O Electronics 
D Steam  Fitting  □ Practical  Telephony 
D Radio,  General 
D Radio  Operating 
D Radio  Servicing 

□ Telegraph  Engineering 
Electrical  Courseg 

□ Plastics  O Electrical  Drafting 

D Electrical  Engineering 

□ Electric  Light  and  Powes 

□ Lighting  Technidarr 

□ Practical  EJeclridan 
Internal  Combustion 
Engines  Courses 

O Auto  Technician 
D Diesel-Electric 


□ Diesel  Engines 


□ Industrial  Engineering 

□ Industrial  Metallurgy 

□ Machine  Shop 

□ Mechanical  Drafting 

□ Mechanical  Engine^ng 
D MoIcKLoft  Work 
D Patternmaking— Wood,  Mets! 

O Reading  Shop  Blueprints 

□ Sheet- Metai  Drafting 
C Sheet- Metal  Worker 

□ Ship  Drafting  □ Ship  Fitting 

C lool  Defining 

□ rocimaking 

□ Welding— Gas  and  Electrlo 
Railroad  Courses 

D Air  Brake  □ Car  Inspector 

□ Diesel  Locomotive 
□ Aviation  □ locomotive  Engineer 

□ Locomotive  Fireman 


Mechanical  Courses 
O Aefonaut-cal  Engineer’s,  Jr. 

□ Aircraft  Drafting 

□ Flight  Engineer 


□ Gas  Engines  □ Railroad  Section  Foreman 


□ Forging 


Steam  Engineering  Courses 

□ Boilermaking 

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□ Heat  Treatment  of  Metals 


□ Foundry  Work  □ Marine  Engirieetlng 


□ Steam  Qectric  □ Steam  Engines 


Texttig  Courseg 

□ Cotton  Manufacturing 

□ Rayon  Weaving 

□ Textile  Designing 

Q Woolen  Manufacturing 
Business  and 
Acadomio  Courses  -- 
D Accounting  O Advertising 

□ Arithmetic  □ Bookkeeping 

□ Business  Administration 

□ Business  Correspondence 

□ Certified  Public  Accounting 

□ Commercial 

□ Commercial  Art 

□ Cost  Accounting 
O Federal  Tax 

D First  Year  Ccllega 

□ Foremanship  □ French 

□ Good  English  □ High  School 

□ Higher  Mathematics 

D Motor  Traffic  O Postal  Service 

□ Salesmanship  D Secretarial 

D Sign  Lettering 

□ Spa  nish  O Stenography 

□ Traffic  Management 


Name 

Home  Address 

City 

Slate 

Age 

Present  Position 

WofWnf  Hours 

A.M.  10 

P.M. 

Special  tuition  rates  to  members  of  the  Armed  Forces.  Special  discount  to  World  War  1 1 Veterans. 
Canadian  residents  send  coupon  to  International  Correspondence  Schools  Canadian^  Ltd.,  Montreal,  Canada* 


OU  ASKED  for  it — and  you’ll  get  it! 
a bigger  and  better  science  fiction 
magazine!  With  the  next  issue,  we 
add  32  pages  of  text — making  a grand  total 
of  180  pages  of  the  best  reading  in  the  science 
fiction  field.  This  means  20,000  extra  words 
of  fiction — greater  variety,  more  and  longer 
stories,  a much  better  balanced  magazine! 

It  is  our  answer  to  those  thousands  of  you 
who  have,  for  so  long  now,  been  requesting 
that  we  enlarge  this  magazine.  We  started 
the  ball  rolling  earlier  this  year  by  going  up 
to  148  pages — and  now  we  have  taken  a 
further  step.  Our  companion  magazine, 
THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES,  wiU  now 
likewise  be  180  pages,  and  each  magazine  will 
cost  25c,  or  a nickel  more,  on  the  newsstands. 
There  is  no  extra  charge  to  present  sub- 
scribers. 

The  first  change  to  result  from  our  second 
step-up  in  size  is  that  both  magazines, 
henceforth,  will  feature  an  extra  department 
as  we  will  add  a science  fiction  book  review 
column  to  this  magazine  and  a regular  com- 
mentary on  science  fiction  amateur  maga- 
zines in  TWS. 

We  are  now  giving  you  readers,  who  never 
seem  to  get  your  science  fiction  in  large 
enough  doses,  something  really  to  sink  your 
teeth  in!  These  successive  enlargements, 
with  their  resultant  improvement  in  quality 
as  well  as  quantity  in  1948,  make  this  year 
the  most  important  period  of  progress  we 
have  known  since  STARTLING  STORIES 
first  saw  the  light  of  day  nine  years  ago. 

We  wish  you  more  and  happier  reading! 
And  we  hope  you  will  write  and  teU  us  how 
you  like  next  issue’s  augmented  SS. 


Belated  STF-Club  Registrants 

A NUMBER  of  applicants  who  wished  to 
be  entered  on  the  science  fiction  fan 
club  list  we  ran  in  the  July  issue  of 
STARTLING  STORIES  seem  to  have  writ- 


ten in  too  late.  Therefore,  we  shall  tabulate 
them  here  as  requested — ^but  with  a warning 
that  no  further  list  will  be  published  until 
the  December  issue  of  our  companion  maga- 
zine, THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES. 

Since  we  plan  to  make  this  a semi-annual 
custom,  we  wish  that  all  of  you  club  officials 
who  want  such  fisting  will  write  in  again, 
well  ahead  of  August  15th,  which  will  give  us 
plenty  of  time  to  work  you  in.  Please  don’t 
expect  US' to  count  previous  entries  and  please 
fist  aU  changes  of  officers  or  address. 

Now,  the  supplementary  entries — 

COLUMBUS  SCIENCE  FICTION  SOCIETY 
Anyone  interested  in  joining  this  group  should 
write  Richard  Layman,  523%  South  Harris,  Co- 
lumbus, Ohio. 

LOUISVILLE  STF  SOCIETY 
President,  Lester  Fried,  2050  Midland,  Louis- 
ville 4,  Kentucky.  Telephone,  Highland  5684-W. 

SCIENCE  FICTION,  INTERNATIONAL 
Secretary-Treasurer,  Dan  Mulcahy,  4170  Utah 
Street,  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  Dues,  50c  per  annum. 

MICHIGAN  SCIENCE-FANTASY  SOCIETY 
Prospective  members  should  contact  Ben 
Singer,  3242  Monterey  Drive,  Detroit  6,  Michigan, 
or  Arthur  H.  Rapp,  2120  Bay  Street  Saginaw, 
Michigan. 

THE  STRANGER  CLUB 

Contact  Dave  Thomas,  31  Linnaean  Street, 
Cambridge  38,  Massachusetts. 

THE  TECHNOPOLARIANS 
Contact  Bill  Groover,  113  North  Porter  Street, 
Saginaw,  Michigan. 

TOPEKA  SCIENCE  FICTION  CLUB 
A new-born  organization  for  fans  in  the  Kan- 
sas-Missouri  area.  Contact  Linda  Bowles,  931 
North  Jackson,  Topeka,  Kansas. 

Let’s  hope  that  everyone  writes  in  in  time 
for  the  December  fan-organization  fisting  in 
the  December  TWS  (remember  the  August 
15th  deadline)  and  that  all  of  you  who  have 
already  had  your  group’s  name  in  print  in 
this  column  have  reaped  a full  reward  in 
broadened  correspondence  and  membership 
rosters. 


(Continued  on  page  8) 


THOUSANDS  NOW  PUY 


who  never  thought  they  couldt 


Thrilled  by  Playing 

I'7e  had  mr  lessons  Just  a weefe.  I think 
your  oourso  is  super.  I was  more  thrilled 
than  words  can  express  when  I found  I 
could  actually  play  America,  The  Merry 
Widow  Waltz  and  the  others. 

*J.  T..  Mancelona,  Mich. 


Wouldn’t  Take  $1000  for  Course 

The  lessons  are  so  simple  that  anyone  can 
understand  them.  I haie  learned  to  play 
by  note  in  a little  more  than  a month.  I 
wouldn’t  take  a thousand  dollars  for  my 
course.  *S.  £.  A..  Kansas  City.  Mo. 


Shares  Course  With  Sister 

The  teaching  is  so  interesting  and  the 
pieces  so  beautiful  I couldn't  ask  for  any- 
thing better.  I recommend  your  course 
highly.  My  sister  shares  it  with  me  and 
feels  the  same  way. 

*D.  E.  G.,  Wausau.  Wise. 


Finding  New  Joy 

I am  finding  a new  Joy  that  I 
nerer  experienced  before,  for  I 
hare  always  wanted  to  play,  but 
had  girm  up  hope  until  I heard 
of  your  course. 

*C.  S.  Lucien,  Okla. 


Plays  After  2 Months 

I hesitated  before  sending  for  your 
course  because  of  an  earlier  ex- 
perience I had  with  a course  by 
ear  from  another  company.  I am 
playing  pieces  now  I never  dreamed 
I would  play  after  only  two  months. 
*E.  T.,  Prichard,  Ala. 

•Actual  pupils’  names  on  request. 
Pictures  by  professional  models. 


You,  too,  can  play  any  instrument 
By  this  EASY  A-B-C  Method 


YOU  think  It's  difficult  to  learn 
music?  That’s  what  thousands 
of  others  have  thought!  Just  like 
you,  they  long  to  play  some  instru- 
ment— the  piano,  violin,  guitar, 
saxophone  or  other  favorites.  But 
they  denied  themselves  the  pleasure 
— because  they  thought  it  took 
months  and  years  of  tedious  study 
to  learn. 

Learn  in  Spare  Time  at  Home 

And  then  they  made  an  amazing:  dis- 
covery ! They  learned  about  a wonderful 
way  to  learn  music  at  home — without  a 
private  teacher — without  tedious-  study — 
and  in  a surprisingly  short  time.  They 
wrote  to  the  U.  S.  School  of  Music  for  the 
facts  about  this  remarkable  short-cut 
method.  And  the  facts 
opened  their  eyes ! They 
were  amazed  to  find  how 
easy  it  was  to  learn. 

The  result?  Over  850,000 
men  and  women  have  studied 
music  at  home  this  simple, 

A-B-C  way.  Now,  all  over 
the  world,  enthusiastic  mu- 
sic-lovers are  enjoying  the 
thrilling  satisfaction  of  cre- 
ating their  own  music.  They 
have  found  the  key  to  good 
times,  popularity  and 
profit. 


Costs  only  few  cents  a Day 

And  that’s  what  you  can 
do,  right  now.  Get  the  proof 
that  you,  too,  can  learn  to 
play  your  favorite  instru- 
ment— quickly,  easily,  in 


spare  time  at  home  for  only  a few  cents 
a day.  Never  mind  if  you  have  no  musical 
knowledge  or  talent.  Just  read  the  fas- 
cinating booklet  and  Print  and  Picture 
sample  that  explain  all  about  the  U.  S. 
School  method.  (Instruments  supplied  when 
needed,  cash  or  credit.)  Tear  out  the  cou- 
pon now,  before  you  turn  the  page.  U.  S. 
School  of  Music, 

2949  Brunswick 
Bldg.,  New  York 
10,  N.  Y.  (50th 
year) 


FREE! 

Print  and  Picture 
Somple 


NOTICE 

Prices  of  our  courses 
have  not  gone  up. 
Music  lessons  still 
cost  only  a few  cents 
a day.  Remember,  we 
don't  teach  music 
"by  ear'*  or  by  num- 
bers. We  teach  you 
to  play  by  standard 
notes. 


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8 


THE  ETHEP  VIERATES 

(Continued  from  page  6) 

Don’t  forget,  we  want  to  hear  from  all  of 
you  at  least  twice  a year. 


OUR  NEXT  ISSUE 

WITH  its  featured  novel  in  the  Novem- 
ber issue,  AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF 
NIGHT,  SS  introduces  an  author  new  to 
American  science  fiction  readers  although  he 
is  already  estabhshed  as  a bright  star  in  the 
British  stf  firmament — Arthur  C.  Clarke. 

AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT  is  a 
magnificent  imaginative  achievement,  a full- 
bodied  tale  of  childhood  and  super-science  in 
a world  grown  old  with  the  passing  eons — a 
world  which  has  known  an  intergalactic  em- 
pire and  has  forfeited  same  to  dwell  in 
isolated  patches  of  its  own  surface  which 
alone  will  support  human  existence. 

It  is  a story  of  a youth  who  resents  the 
physical  and  intellectual  limitations  that  sur- 
round him,  who  delves  deep  into  the  roots 
of  the  past  to  create  a future  less  hemmed  in 
with  ancestor-created  restrictions.  It  is  a 
story  of  human  understanding  and  frailty 
and  greatness,  of  high  adventure  and  deep 
philosophy,  of  the  furthest  reaches  of  space 
and  time. 

It  is  a story  which  none  of  you  who  read  it 
is  likely  soon  to  forget. 

The  Hall  of  Fame  selection,  according  to 
recent  custom  since  we  attained  greater  size, 
is  a long  and  epic  novelet  by  that  favorite  of 
old-time  stf  fans,  Festus  PragneU,  entitled 
THE  ISOTOPE  MEN. 

Christopher  Barlem,  in  the  interests  of 
science,  allows  himself  to  be  made  “tem- 
porarily dead,”  so  that  he  may  explore  the 
race  memory  of  mankind — and  emerges  from 
his  artificial  catalepsy  with  an  amazing  tale 
of  the  first  colonization  of  Earth  by  refugees 
from  the  planet  that,  millions  of  years  ago, 
rode  its  proud  orbit  between  Mars  and 
Jupiter. 

Today  this  former  solar  satelhte  is  but  a 
collection  of  asteroids  wandering,  dead  and 
aimless,  on  its  path  in  space.  But  formerly  it 
was  the  seat  of  human  science  and  civiliza- 
tion. What  happened?  Let  Christopher  Bar- 
lem tell  the  story  in  our  November  issue. 
Other  stories  and  novelets  will  be  selected 


from  a list  of  authors  that  includes  Noel 
Loomis,  Jack  Vance,  Rene  LaFayette,  Joe 
Gibson,  John  D.  MacDonald,  Murray  Lein- 
ster, Henry  Kuttner,  Ray  Bradbury  and  other 
stars,  veteran  and  neophyte.  We  feel  it  a 
proud  field  to  choose  from. 


JUST  by  way  of  whimsy  we  shall  start 
off  our  longest  letter  department  to 
date  with  the  shortest  missive  received,  a 
last-minute  flash. 


PLEASE,  PLEASE,  PLEASE!!! 

by  Con  Pederson 


Dear  Editor:  PLEASE  DON’T  print  the  letter  I sent 
you  recently!!!!  I just  read  Ray  Bradbury’s  AND  THE 
MOON  BE  STILL  AS  BRIGHT— Don’t  print  it  don't 
print  it  don’t  print  it. — 705  West  Kelso,  Inglewood, 
California. 


Best  part  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  Brother 
Pederson’s  missive  was  consigned  to  the 
wastebasket  before  his  stop-press  postcard 
was  received.  So  we  don’t  remember  what 
it  was  all  about.  Besides,  we  like  the  post- 
card better.  More  urgent. 


EPISTLE  FROM  BLOOMINGTON 

by  Bob  Tucker 


Dear  Sir:  The  new  issue  is  at  hand  and  I feel  com- 
pelled to  take  my  pen  in  hand  for  a few  words  with 
you;  I have  never  before  written  to  an  editor  but  I 
feel  that  having  been  a steady  reader  of  “our  mag” 
for  twenty-three  years  entitles  me  to  a hearing. 

Clearly  the  best  presentation  in  the  issue  was  Rick 
Sneary’s  letter,  and  I’m  glad  to  see  that  at  last  you 
have  given  up  the  practice  of  the  cover  painting  illus- 
trating nothing  at  all.  I thought  that  the  cover  artist 
followed  Sneary's  plot  very  well  indeed  and  captured 
on  canvas  the  pictorial  essence  of  the  drama  underly- 
ing Sneary’s  magnificent  tale.  This  somewhat  reminds 
me  of  the  old  days  when  Wesso  used  to  present  won- 
derful covers  accurately  picturing  some  fan’s  letter. 
Let’s  have  a missive  from  Sneary  every  issue — well 
worth  the  twenty  cents! 

The  second-best  letter  was  that  of  Gerry  de  la  Ree's, 
inasmuch  as  he  used  my  name  for  one  of  his  char- 
acters. I must  admit  that  the  science  de  la  Ree  em- 
ployed is  open  to  question,  even  in  this  fantastic  age 
with  new  sciences  cropping  out  of  every  broken  atom, 
but  then  he  managed  to  bring  his  letter  to  a fitting 
and  logical  climax  so  one  mustn’t  gripe  too  much 
about  the  methods  employed.  The  illustration  for  this 
letter  wasn’t  too  good. 

Third  in  my  estimation  was  the  entry  of  this  Paula 
Vreeland,  but  I do  think  you  would  do  well  to  elim- 
inate your  bad  puns  from  the  blurbs — along  with  the 
dogged  verse  you  are  sometimes  guilty  of  in  the 
magazine.  This  was  fantasy  instead  of  science-fiction 
of  course,  but  then  I have  no  objection  to  a spot  of 
fantasy  now  and  then,  especially  when  it  is  as  well 
done  as  this  item. 

I also  like  the  stories  in  the  front  of  the  book  and 
sometimes  read  them  first. — P.  O.  Box  #260,  Bloom- 
ington, Illinois, 


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When  the  first 
moon  rocket  fell 
back  to  earth 
with  a flash,  Keith 
Winton  found  himself 
catapulted  into 
a world  that 
couldn't  he! 


an  astoBiisbiDg 
complete  novel 


CHAPTER  I 
The  Moon  Rocket 

The  first  attempt  to  send  a rocket  to  the 
moon,  in  1952,  was  a failure.  Probably 
because  of  a structural  defect  in  the  operating 


mechanism,  it  fell  back  to  Earth,  causing  a doz- 
en casualties.  Although  not  containing  any  ex- 
plosives, the  rocket — in  order  that  its  landing 
on  the  moon  might  be  observed  from  earth — 
contained  a Burton  potentiometer  set  to  operate 
throughout  the  journey  through  space  to  build 


The  Planet  of  Dopelle 

up  a tremendous  electrical  potential  which, 
when  released  on  contact  with  the  moon,  would 
cause  a flash  several  thousand  times  brighter 
than  lightning — and  several  thousand  times 
more  disruptive.  Fortunately,  it  came  down  in 
a thinly  populated  area  in  the  Catskill  foothills, 
landing  upon  the  estate  of  a wealthy  publisher 
of  a chain  of  magazines.  The  publisher  and  his 
wife,  two  guests  and  eight  servants  were  killed 
by  the  electrical  discharge,  which  completely 
demolished  the  house  and  felled  trees  for  a 
quarter  of  a mile  around.  Only  eleven  bodies 
were  found.  It  is  presumed  that  one  of  the 
guests,  an  editor,  was  so  near  the  center  of  the 
flash  that  his  body  was  completely  disintegrated. 
The  next — and  first  successful — rocket  was  sent 
in  1953,  almost  a year  later. 

* * * 

Keith  WINTON  was  pretty  well 
winded  when  the  set  of  tennis  was 
over  but  he  tried  not  to  show  it. 
He  hadn’t  played  in  years  and  tennis — ^he 
was  just  realizing — is  definitely  a young 
man’s  game.  Not  that  he  was  old  by  any 
means — but  at  thirty-one  you  get  winded 
unless  you’ve  kept  in  condition.  Keith 
hadn’t.  He’d  had  to  extend  himself  to  win 
that  set. 

He  extended  himself  a bit  more,  enough 
to  leap  across  the  net  to  join  the  girl  on  the 
other  side.  He  was  panting  a little  but  he 
grinned  at  her. 

“Another  set?  Got  time?” 

Betty  Hadley  shook  her  blond  head. 
“’Fraid  not,  Keith.  I’m  going  to  be  late  now. 
I couldn’t  have  stayed  this  long  except  that 
Mr.  Borden  promised  to  have  his  chauffeur 
drive  me  to  the  airport  at  Greeneville  and 
have  me  flown  back  to  New  York  from  there. 
Isn’t  he  a wonderful  man  to  work  for  ?” 
“Uh-huh,”  said  Keith,  not  thinking  about 
Mr.  Borden  at  all.  “You’ve  got  to  get  back?” 
"Got  to,”  she  said  emphatically.  “It’s  an 
alumnae  dinner.  My  own  alma  mater  and, 
not  only  that,  but  I’ve  got  to  speak.  To  tell 
them  how  a love  story  magazine  is  edited.” 
“I  could  come  along,”  Keith  suggested, 
“and  tell  them  how  a science-fiction  book  is 
edited.  Or  a horror  book,  for  that  matter — 
I had  Bloodcurdling  T ales  before  Borden  put 
me  on  Surprising  Stories.  That  job  used  to 


Is  the  Fabulous  Globe 

give  me  nightmares.  Maybe  your  fellow 
alumnae  would  like  to  hear  about  it,  huh?” 
Betty  Hadley  laughed.  “They  probably 
would.  But  it’s  strictly  a hen  party,  Keith. 
And  don’t  look  so  downhearted.  I’ll  be  see- 
ing you  at  the  office  tomorrow.  This  isn’t 
the  end  of  the  world,  you  know.” 

“Well,  no,”  Keith  admitted.  He  was 
wrong  in  a way  but  he  didn’t  know  that. 

He  fell  into  stride  beside  Betty  as  she 
started  up  the  walk  from  the  tennis  court  to 
the  big  house  that  was  the  summer  estate  of 
L.  A.  Borden,  publisher  of  the  Borden  chain 
of  magazines. 

He  sighed.  “You  ought  to  stay  around  to 
see  the  fireworks,  though.” 

“Fireworks?  Oh,  you  mean  the  moon 
rocket.  Will  there  be  anything  to  see, 
Keith?”, 

“They’re  hoping  so.  Read  much  about  it?” 
“Not  a lot.  I know  the  rocket  is  supposed 
to  hit  the  moon  like  a flash  of  lightning  or 
something.  And  they’re  hoping  it’ll  be  visible 
to  the  naked  eye  and  everybody’s  going  to  be 
watching  for  it.  Sixteen  minutes  after  nine, 
isn’t  it?” 

“Right.  I’m  going  to  be  watching  for  it 
anyway.  If  you  get  a chance — watch  the 
moon  dead  center,  between  the  horns  of  the 
crescent.  It’s  a new  moon,  in  case  you  haven’t 
been  looking,  and  it’ll  hit  in  the  dark  area. 
Without  a telescope  it’ll  be  a faint  small 
flash,  like  somebody  striking  a match  a block 
away.  You’ll  have  to  be  watching  closely.” 
“They  say  it  doesn’t  contain  explosives, 
Keith ? What  is  it  that  will  make  the  flash?” 
“Electrical  discharge — on  a scale  nobody’s 
ever  tried  before.  There’s  a new-fangled  out- 
fit in  it — guy  by  the  name  of  Professor  Bur- 
tcm  worked  it  out — that  uses  the  kickback  of 
the  acceleration  and  converts  it  into  potential 
electrical  energy — static  electricity,  of  a kind. 
The  rocket  itself  will  be  something  on  the 
order  of  a monster  Leyden  jar  with  a tre- 
mendous potential. 

“When  it  hits  the  surface  of  the  moon  and 
busts  up  the  insulating  layer  outside — well, 
it’ll  make  the  grand-daddy  of  all  short  cir- 
cuits. It’ll  be  like  a flash  of  lightning,  only 
probably  three  or  four  thousand  times 
stronger  than  the  biggest  lightning  bolt  that 
ever  hit  earth.” 

“Sounds  complicated,  Keith.  Wouldn’t 


Where  Men  in  Jalopies  Are  Masters  of  Space! 


an  explosive  charge  have  been  simpler?” 
“In  a way,  yes,  but  we’ll  get  a lot  brighter 
flash  frcxn  this — weight  for  weight — than 
even  from  an  atomic  warhead.  And  what 
they’re  interested  in  is  a bright  flash,  not  an 
explosion.  Of  course,  it  will  tear  up  a little 
landscape — not  as  much  as  an  A-bomb, 
though  more  than  a block-buster — but  that’s 
incidental.  And  they  expect  to  learn  a lot 
about  the  exact  composition  of  the  surface 


B£TTY  HADLEY 


of  the  moon  by  training  spectroscopes  on  the 
flash  through  every  big  telescope  available. 
They—” 

They’d  reached  the  door  of  the  house  and 
Betty  Hadley  interrupted  by  putting  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  “Sorry  to  interrupt  you, 
Keith,  but  I must  hurry.  Honestly,  or  I’ll 
miss  the  plane.  ’Bye.” 

She  put  out  her  hand  for  him  to  take  but 
Keith  Winton  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders 
instead  and  pulled  her  to  him.  He  kissed  her 
and,  for  a breathless  second,  her  lips  yielded 
under  his.  Then  she  broke  away. 

But  her  eyes  were  shining — and  just  a bit 
misty.  She  said,  “’Bye,  Keith.  See  you  in 
New  York.” 

“Tomorrow  night?  It’s  a date.” 

She  nodded  and  ran  on  into  the  house. 


Keith  stood  there,  a fatuous  smile  on  his  face, 
leaning  against  the  doorpost. 

IN  LOVE  again,  he  thought.  And  this 
time  it  wasn’t  quite  like  anything  else 
that  had  ever  happened  to  him.  It  was  as 
sudden  and  violent  as — well,  as  the  flash  on 
the  moon  was  going  to  be  at  nine-sixteen  to- 
night. 

He’d  known  Betty  Hadley  only  three  days, 
seen  her  only  once  before  this  marvelous 
weekend — that  had  been  Thursday  when 
she’d  first  come  to  Borden  Publications,  Inc. 
The  magazine  she  edited.  Perfect  Love 
Stories,  had  just  been  bought  by  Borden 
from  a lesser  chain.  Part  of  the  purchase 
contract  had  been  that  he  could  hire  the  edi- 
tor who  had  done  so  well  with  it. 

• Perfect  Love  Stories  had  been  a profitable 
magazine  for  three  years  now,  due  to  Betty 
Pladley.  The  only  reason  the  Whaley  Pub- 
lishing Co.  had  offered  it  for  sale  was  that 
they  were  changing  to  exclusive  publication 
of  slicks.  Perfect  Love  was  their  only  sur- 
viving pulp. 

So  he’d  met  Betty  Hadley  on  Thursday 
and,  to  Keith  Winton,  Thursday  now  seemed 
just  about  the  most  important  day  in  his  life 
to  date.  Friday  he’d  had  to  go  to  Philadel- 
phia to  see  one  of  his  writers,  a guy  who 
could  really  write  but  who’d  been  paid  in 
advance  for  a lead  novel  and  didn’t  seem  to 
be  doing  anything  about  writing  it.  He’d 
tried  to  get  the  writer  started  on  a plot,  and 
thought  he’d  succeeded. 

Anyway,  he’d  missed  seeing  Joe  Doppel- 
berg,  his  prize  fan,  who’d  picked  Friday  to 
happen  to  be  in  New  York  and  to  call  at  the 
Borden  offices.  Maybe  that  was  a gain, 
judging  from  Joe  Doppelberg’s  letters. 

And  then,  yesterday  afternoon,  he’d  come 
out  here  at  Borden’s  invitation.  And  just 
another  weekend  on  the  boss’s  estate  (this 
was  the  third  time  Keith  had  been  here)  had 
turned  into  sheer  magic  when  Betty  Hadley 
turned  out  to  be  one  of  the  other  two  guests 
from  the  office. 

Betty  Hadley — tall  and  lithe  and  golden 
blonde,  with  soft  sun-tanned  skin,  with  a 
face  and  figure  that  belonged  on  the  televi- 
sion screen  rather  than  in  an  editorial  office 
— how  she  ever  got  to  be  an  editor — 

He  sighed  and  went  on  into  the  house.  In 


13 


STARTLING  STORIES 


the  big  walnut-paneled  living  room,  Borden 
and  Walter  Callahan,  head  accountant  for 
Borden,  were  playing  gin  rummy. 

Borden  looked  up  as  he  came  in.  “Hi, 
Keith.  Want  to  take  over  after  this  game? 
It’s  nearly  finished.  I’ve  got  some  letters  to 
write  and  Walter  would  probably  as  soon 
take  your  money  as  mine.” 

Keith  shook  his  head.  “Got  to  do  some 
work  myself,  Mr.  Borden.  I’m  smack  against 
deadline  on  the  Rocketalk  Department;  I 
brought  my  portable  and  the  letter  file 
along.” 

“Oh,  come  now.  I didn’t  bring  you  out 
here  to  work.  Do  it  at  the  office  tomorrow.” 

“Wish  I could,”  Keith  said.  “But  it’s  my 
own  fault  for  getting  behind  and  the  stuff 
has  to  go  to  the  printer  tomorrow  morning 
at  ten  sharp.  They’re  closing  the  forms  at 
noon.  It’s  only  a couple  of  hours  work  and 
I’d  rather  get  it  done  now  and  be  free  this 
evening.” 

He  went  on  through  the  living  room  and 
upstairs.  In  his  room  he  took  his  typewriter 
out  of  its  case  and  put  it  on  the  desk.  From 
his  brief-case  he  took  the  file-folder  that  held 
the  incoming  correspondence  addressed  to 
Rocketalk  Department  or,  in  the  case  erf  the 
less  inhibited  letters,  to  The  Rocketeer. 

On  top  of  the  stack  was  Joe  Doppelberg’s 
letter.  He’d  put  it  there  because  it  had  said 
Joe  Doppelberg  was  coming  to  call  in  person 
and  he  had  wanted  to  have  it  handy. 

He  worked  paper  into  the  typewriter  and 
put  down  Rocketalk  as  a heading,  then  took  a 
deep  breath  and  dived  in. 

Well,  fellow  space-pilots,  tonight — the  night 
I’m  writing  this,  not  the  night  you’re  reading 
it — is  the  big  night,  the  big  night,  and  the  ok 
Rocketeer  was  out  there  to  see  k.  And  see  it 
he  did,  that  flash  of  light  on  the  dark  of  the 
moon  that  marked  the  landing  of  the  first  suc- 
cessful missile  launched  through  space  by  man. 

He  looked  at  it  critically,  then  )ranked  the 
paper  out  of  the  machine  and  put  in  fresh. 
It  was  too  formal,  too  stilted.  He  lighted  a 
cigarette  and  wrote  it  again  and  it  came  out 
better — or  worse. 

IN  THE  pause  while  he  read  it  over  he 
heard  a door  open  and  close  and  high- 
heeled  footsteps  clicking  down  the  stairs. 
That  would  be  Betty,  leaving.  He  got  up  to 
go  to  the  door  and  then  sat  down  again.  No, 
it  would  be  anticlimactic  to  say  good-bye 


again,  now,  with  the  Bordens  and  CaHahan 
around.  Much  better  to  leave  it  on  the  note 
of  that  quick  but  breathless  kiss  and  the 
promise  of  seeing  him  tomorrow  evening. 

He  sighed  and  picked  up  the  top  letter.  It 
said: 

Dear  Rocky-Tear ; I shouldn’t  ought  to  write 
you  atall,  because  your  last  ish  stinks  to  high 
Arcturus,  except  for  the  Wheeler  yarn.  Who 
ever  told  that  mug  Gormley  he  could  write? 
And  his  space-navigation?  The  big  bohunk 
couldn’t  peelot  a rowboat  across  Mud  Crick  on 
a sunny  day. 

And  that  Hooper  cover— the  gal  was  okay, 
more  than  okay,  tho  what  gals  aren’t  on  covers  ? 
But  that  thing  chasing  her — is  it  supposed  to 
be  one  of  the  Mercurian  devils  in  the  Wheeler 
story?  Well,  tell  Hooper  I can  think  of  scarier 
BEIMs  than  them,  cold  sober,  without  even  a 
slug  of  Venusian  sappy-sap. 

Why  don’t  she  just  turn  around  and  chase  it? 
Keep  Hooper  on  the  inside — ^his  black  and  white 
stuff  is  okay — and  get  somebody  else  for  covers. 
How  about  Rockwell  Kent  or  Dali?  I’ll  bet 
Dali  could  make  a dilly  of  a BEM.  Get  it. 
Rocky  ? Dali-dilly. 

Lookit,  Rocky,  get  the  Uranian  bug- juke 
ready  and  iced  because  I’m  going  to  beard  the 
lyin’  in  his  den,  come  Friday.  Not  coming  to 
Spaceport  N’Yawk  just  to  see  you.  Rocky,  don’t 
flatter  yourself  on  that.  But  because  I got  to 
see  a Martian  about  a dog-star  anyway.  I’ll  be 
in  town,  and  I’m  going  to  see  if  you’re  as  ugly 
as  they  say  you  are. 

One  recent  idea  of  yours.  Rocky,  is  tops. 
That’s  running  half -col  pix  of  your  best  and 
regularest  correspondents  with  their  letters.  So 
I got  a surprise  for  you.  I’m  sending  mine.  I 
was  going  to  bring  it,  but  this  letter’ll  get  there 
before  I do  and  I might  miss  an  ish  going  to 
press  in  between. 

Ennahoo,  Rocky,  kill  the  fatted  moon-calf, 
because  I’ll  be  seeing  you  Friday. 

Joe  Doppelberg. 

Keith  Winton  sighed  again,  and  picked  up 
his  pencil.  He  marked  out  the  paragraph 
about  the  trip  to  New  York — that  wouldn’t 
interest  the  other  readers  and  he  didn’t  want 
to  give  too  many  of  them  the  idea  of  dropping 
in  ^ the  office.  He  could  waste  too  much 
time  that  w'ay. 

He  penciled  out  a few  of  the  cornier 
phrases  in  the  other  parts  of  the  letter,  then 
picked  up  the  snapshot  that  had  come  with 
the  letter  and  glanced  at  it  again. 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


15 


Joe  Doppelberg  didn’t  look  like  his  letter. 
He  was  a not  bad,  rather  intelligent  looking, 
kid  (rf  sixteen  or  seventeen  with  a nice  grin. 
Sure,  he’d  run  it  with  the  letter.  Should 
have  sent  it  to  the  photoengraver  before  but 
there  was  still  time.  He  marked  the  copy 
to  be  set  with  a half-column  runaround  for 
a cut,  wrote  “j4-col  Doppelberg”  on  the 
back  of  the  photograph. 

He  put  the  second  page  of  Joe’s  letter  into 


Keltfc  pulled  free  of  the  Lundu  and  ran 
(CHAPTER  III) 


the  typewriter,  thought  a moment  and  typed 
at  the  bottom: 

“So  okay,  Doppelberg,  we’ll  get  Rockwell 
Kent  to  do  our  next  cover.  You  pay  him. 
But  as  for  having  the  glamour-gals  chasing 
the  BEMs,  it  can’t  be  done.  Gals  in  stf  are 
always  chaste.  Get  it,  Doppelberg?  Chaste- 
chased.  And  that  ain’t  half  as  bad  as  your 
Dali-dilly,  either.” 

He  took  the  page  out  of  the  typewriter, 
sighed  and  pick^  up  the  next  letter. 

He  finished  at  six,  which  left  him  an  hour 
before  dinner.  He  took  a quick  shower  and 
dressed  and  there  was  still  half  an  hour  left. 
He  wandered  downstairs  and  out  the  French 
doors  that  led  to  the  garden. 

It  was  just  turning  dusk  and  the  new  moon 
was  already  visible  in  the  clear  sky.  The  see- 
ing would  be  good,  he  thought.  And,  darn  it. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


16 

that  rocket-flash  had  better  turn  out  to  be 
visible  to  the  naked  eye  or  he’d  have  to  write 
a new  opening  paragraph  for  the  Rocketalk 
Department.  Well,  there’d  be  time  for  that 
after  nine-sixteen. 

He  sat  down  on  a wicker  bench  beside  the 
main  path  through  the  garden,  and  sniffed 
deeply  of  the  fresh  country  air  and  the  scent 
of  flowers  all  about  him.  He  thought  about 
Betty  Hadley,  and  just  what  he  thought 
about  her  doesn’t  need  to  be  recorded  here. 

But  it  kept  him  happy — perhaps  happily 
miserable  would  be  a better  description — un- 
til his  mind  wandered  to  the  writer  in  Phila- 
delphia and  he  wondered  if  the  so-and-so 
was  actually  working  on  that  story  or  was 
out  getting  plastered. 

Darn  it,  he  really  needed  that  novel  for 
the  October  book.  Borden  had  okayed  the 
pay  in  advance  but  just  the  same  it  had  been 
his,  Keith’s  idea  and  Borden  was  going  to 
blame  him  if  the  story  didn’t  materialize. 

He  thought  about  Betty  Hadley  again  and 
then  he  thought  about  all  the  criticisms  the 
Hooper  covers  had  been  getting  and  won- 
dered if  he  could  find  a cover  artist  who’d 
be  really  good  on  both  beautiful  heroines  and 
horrible  monsters.  Hooper  was  a nice  guy 
but  he  just  didn’t  have  bad  enough  night- 
mares to  please  the  customers.  Like  Joe 
Doppelberg,  most  of  the  fans  seemed  to 
want — 

The  rocket,  falling  back  to  Earth,  was 
traveling  faster  than  sound  and  he  neither 
saw  nor  heard  it,  although  it  struck  only  two 
yards  away  from  him. 

There  was  a flash. 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Purple  BEM 


There  was  no  sense  of  transition,  of 
movement,  nothing  of  lapse  of  time.  One 
instant,  Keith  Winton  had  l^en  sitting  upon 
a wicker  bench ; in  the  same  instant,  it 
seemed,  he  was  lying  flat  on  his  back  staring 
up  at  the  evening  sky. 

There  had  been  the  flash  and  this — simul- 
taneously. 

Only  it  couldn’t  have  been  merely  that 
the  wicker  bench  had  collapsed  under  him — 
or  even  vanished  from  under  him — because 
it  had  been  under  a tree  and  there  was  now 


no  tree  between  him  and  the  sky. 

He  raised  his  head  first  and  then  sat  up, 
for  the  moment  too  shaken — not  physically 
but  mentally — to  stand  up.  Somehow  he 
wanted  his  bearings  first,  before  he  quite 
trusted  his  knees. 

He  was  sitting  on  grass,  smoothly  mowed 
grass,  in  the  middle  of  a yard.  Behind  him, 
when  he  looked  around,  was  a house — a quite 
ordinary  house,  but  it  wasn’t  Mr.  Borden’s 
house.  It  had  the  look,  somehow,  of  a vacant 
house.  At  least,  there  was  no  sign  of  life,  no 
light  at  any  window. 

He  stared  at  the  house  wonderingly,  then 
turned  back  to  look  the  other  way.  A hun- 
dred feet  away,  at  the  edge  of  the  lawn  on 
which  he  sat,  was  a hedge  and  at  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge  were  trees — two  orderly 
rows  of  them,  as  though  on  each  side  of  a 
road.  They  were  tall  poplars. 

He  stood  up  a bit  cautiously.  There  was 
a momentary  touch  of  dizziness  but,  outside 
of  that,  he  was  all  right.  Whatever  had  hap- 
pened to  him  he  wasn’t  hurt.  He  stood  still 
until  the  dizziness  passed  and  then  started 
walking  toward  the  gate  in  the  hedge. 

He  looked  at  his  wrist  watch.  It  was  five 
minutes  of  seven  and  that  was  impossible, 
he  thought.  Because  it  had  been  five  minutes 
of  seven,  just  about,  when  he’d  been  sitting 
on  that  bench  in  Mr.  Borden’s  garden.  And 
wherever  he  was  now  he  couldn’t  have  got 
here  in  nothing  flat. 

He  held  the  wrist  watch  to  his  ear,  and  it 
was  still  ticking.  But  that  didn’t  prove  any- 
thing. Maybe  it  had  stopped  from — from 
whatever  had  happened  and  had  started  again 
when  he  had  stood  up  and  started  walking. 

He  looked  up  again  at  the  sky.  No,  it  had 
been  dusk  then  and  it  was  dusk  now.  Not 
much  time  could  have  elapsed,  if  any.  And 
the  crescent  moon  was  in  the  same  place — at 
least  it  was  the  same  distance  from  the  zenith. 
He  couldn’t  be  sure  here  (wherever  here 
was)  about  his  bearings  and  directions. 

The  gateway  through  the  hedge  led  to  an 
asphalt-paved  three-lane  highway.  As  he 
closed  the  gate  he  looked  again  at  the  house 
and  saw  something  he  hadn’t  noticed  before 
— a sign  on  one  of  the  porch  pillars  that 
read  For  Sale.  R.  Blaisdell,  Greeneville, 

N.  y. 

Then  he  must  still  be  near  Greeneville, 
which  was  the  nearest  town  to  Borden’s 
estate.  But  that  was  obvious  anyway — the 
real  question  was  how  he  could  be  anywhere 
at  all  out  of  sight  of  where  he’d  been  sitting 


WHAT  MAD 

only  minutes  ago.  It  was  only  seven  o’clock, 
even  now. 

He  shook  his  head  to  clear  it.  Amnesia? 
Had  he  walked  here,  wherever  here  was, 
without  knowing  it  ? It  didn’t  seem  possible, 
particularly  in  minutes  or  less. 

He  looked  uncertainly  up  and  down  the 
asphalt  roadway,  wondering  which  way  to 
walk.  There  wasn’t  another  building  in  sight 
anywhere  that  he  could  see.  But  across  the 
road  were  cultivated  fields.  If  there  was  a 
farm  there’d  be  a farmhouse.  He  decided  to 
cross  beyond  the  far  row  of  poplars  and  see 
if  he  could  see  it  from  there.  If  not,  he  could 
just  walk.  Sooner  or  later  he’d  come  to  a 
place  where  he  could  ask  questions  and  get 
his  bearings. 

He  was  halfway  across  the  road  when  he 
heard  the  sound  of  the  approaching  car,  still 
out  of  sight  beyond  the  next  rise.  He  went 
on  to  the  far  edge  of  the  road,  turned  and 
waited.  It  wasn’t  coming  fast  from  the  sound 
of  it  and  maybe — 

It  came  into  sight,  then,  a Model  T of 
ancient  vintage  that  just  barely  seemed  to 
make  the  top  of  the  hill  it  had  been  climbing. 
Then,  as  it  chugged  and  began  to  gather 
speed  again  coming  toward  him,  Keith 
stepped  out  into  the  road  and  held  up  his 
hand.  The  Ford  slowed  down  and  stopped 
beside  him. 

The  man  at  the  wheel  leaned  over  and 
lowered  the  window  on  Keith’s  side.  “Want 
a lift,  mister?”  he  asked.  He  looked,  Keith 
thought,  almost  too  much  like  a farmer  to  be 
one.  He  was  even  chewing  a long  yellow 
straw,  just  the  color  of  his  hair,  and  his  faded 
blue  overalls  matched  his  faded  blue  eyes. 

Keith  put  a foot  on  the  running  board 
and  leaned  his  head  into  the  car 
through  the  open  side  window.  He  said, 
“I’m  afraid  I’m  lost.  Do  you  know  where 
L.  A.  Borden’s  place  is?” 

The  farmer  rolled  the  straw  to  the  oppo- 
site corner  of  his  mouth.  He  thought  deeply, 
frowning  with  the  effort. 

“Nope,”  he  said,  finally.  “Never  heard  of 
him.  Not  on  this  road.  Mebbe  over  on  the 
pike.  I don’t  know  all  the  farms  there.” 

“It  isn’t  a farm,”  Keith  told  him.  “A 
country  estate.  He’s  a publisher.  Where 
does  this  road  go?” 

“Greeneville  ahead,  ten  miles,  or  so.  Back 
t’other  way  it  hits  the  Albany  Highway  at 
Carteret.  Want  a lift  to  Greeneville?  Guess 
you  can  get  your  bearing  there,  find  out 


UNIVERSE  17 

where  this  Borden  lives.” 

“Sure,”  Keith  said.  “Thanks.”  He  got 
into  the  car. 

He  was  going  to  be  late  for  dinner  but  at 
least  he’d  know  where  he  was.  In  Greene- 
ville he  could  phone  Borden  and  then  hire 
a car  to  drive  him  out.  He’d  be  there  by  nine 
at  the  latest. 

The  old  car  chugged  along  the  winding 
road.  His  benefactor  didn’t  seem  to  want  to 
talk  and  Keith  was  glad  of  that.  He  wanted 
to  think,  instead,  to  try  to  figure  out  what 
possibly  could  have  happened. 

Borden’s  estate  was  a big  one.  If  the  driver 
of  the  ancient  jaloppy  knew  everybody  along 
the  road  he  couldn’t  possibly  not  have  heard 
of  Borden’s  place  if  it  were  very  close.  Yet 
it  couldn’t  be  more  than  twenty  miles  away, 
because  it  was  ten  miles  from  Greeneville — 
and  so  was  the  spot  where  he’d  been  picked 
up  along  the  road.  Even  if  those  ten-mile 
distances  were  in  opposite  directions.  And 
even  that  far  was  silly,  since  it  had  been  a 
matter  of  minutes  at  the  most. 

They  were  coming  to  the  outskirts  of  a 
town  now  and  he  looked  at  his  watch  again. 
It  was  seven  thirty-five.  He  looked  out  of 
the  window  of  the  car  at  the  passing  build- 
ings— they  were  on  a business  street  now — 
until  he  saw  a clock  in  a window  and  com- 
pared his  watch  with  it.  The  watch  was 
right.  It  hadn’t  stopped  and  started  again. 

The  jaloppy  swung  into  the  curb  and 
parked.  “This  is  about  the  middle  of  town, 
mister,”  the  driver  said.  “Guess  you  can 
look  up  your  party  in  the  phone  book  and 
you’ll  be  all  right.” 

“Sure — that’s  my  best  bet.  Thanks  a lot.” 

Keith  went  into  the  drugstore  on  the  cor- 
ner and  to  the  phone  booth  at  the  back.  There 
was  a slender  Greeneville  phone  book  hang- 
ing by  a chain  from  one  side  of  the  booth  and 
he  leafed  through  it  to  the  B’s,  and  to — 

There  wasn’t  any  Borden  listed. 

Keith  frowned.  Borden’s  phone  was  in 
the  Greeneville  exchange.  He  remembered 
having  called  the  number  a time  or  two  from 
New  York  City.  And  it  had  been  a Greene- 
ville number  all  right. 

Could  it  be  an  unlisted  number  ? That  was 
possible,  of  course.  Wait  a minute — he  ought 
to  be  able  to  remember  it — it  had  been  three 
numbers  all  alike — ones.  That  was  it — 
GreeneAulle  111.  He  remembered  wondering 
if  Borden  had  used  pull  with  the  phone  com- 
pany to  get  himself  a listing  like  that. 

He  pulled  the  door  of  the  booth  shut  and 


STARTUNG  STORIES 


18 

found  a nickel  out  of  the  change  in  his  pocket. 
But  the  phone  was  a type  he  hadn’t  seen  be- 
fore. There  didn’t  seem  to  be  any  slot  for  a 
coin  to  go  in.  Maybe  they  didn’t  have  coin 
phones  in  these  little  upstate  towns,  he  de- 
cided, and  he’d  be  supposed  to  pay  the  drug- 
gist for  the  call. 

He  picked  up  the  receiver  and,  when  an 
operator’s  voice  asked,  “Number,  please?’’ 
he  gave  it.  There  was  a minute’s  pause  and 
then  the  operator’s  voice  came  back.  “There’s 
no  such  number  listed,  sir.” 

For  a second,  Keith  thought  he  must  be 
going  crazy.  Then  he  shook  his  head.  He 
asked,  “You  have  a phone  listed  for  L.  A. 
Borden?  I thought  that  was  the  number. 
Can’t  find  him  listed  in  the  phone  book  but 
I know  he’s  got  a phone.” 

“One  minute,  sir  . . . No,  there  is  no  such 
name  on  our  listings.” 

“Thanks,”  Keith  said  and  put  the  receiver 
back. 

He  still  didn’t  believe  it.  He  stepped  out 
of  the  booth  and  picked  up  the  phone  book 
again.  He  looked  in  it  again  and  there  still 
wasn’t  any  L.  A.  Borden  listed. 

Suddenly  he  snapped  the  book  shut  and 
looked  at  the  cover.  It  read,  Greeneville, 
N . Y.  A momentary  suspicion  that  he  was 
in  the  wrong  Greeneville  died  and  another 
fainter  suspicion  died  before  it  was  born 
when  he  read  the  smaller  type — Spring, 
1952. 

He  still  didn’t  believe  it  somehow.  He 
wanted  to  open  that  book  and  go  through 
the  B’s  again. 

INSTEAD,  he  walked  forward  to  the  soda 
counter  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  wire-legged  stools.  Behind  the 
counter  the  druggist — a little  gray-haired 
man  with  thick  spectacles — was  polishing 
glasses.  He  looked  up.  “Yes,  sir?” 

“A  Pepsi,  please,”  Keith  said.  He  wanted 
to  ask  questions  but  he  didn’t  know  what 
questions  to  ask.  He  watched  while  the 
druggist  drew  the  Pepsi. 

“Beautiful  night  out,”  the  druggist  said. 
Keith  nodded.  He’d  have  to  remember  to 
watch  for  the  flash  of  that  moon  rocket,  what- 
ever else  happened.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
Almost  eight — another  hour  and  a quarter 
and  he’d  be  outside,  watching  the  dark  of 
the  moon. 

He  drank  the  Pepsi  almost  at  a gulp.  It 
tasted  cool  and  good  but  it  made  him  realize 
he  was  getting  hungry.  Eight  o’clock — why, 


dinner  was  over  by  now  at  the  Bordens’ 
place!  He  looked  around  back  of  the  soda 
fountain  for  any  signs  indicating  that  the 
druggist  served  sandwiches  or  other  food. 
Apparently  he  didn’t. 

Keith  took  a quarter  out  of  his  pocket  and 
put  it  on  the  marble  top  of  the  soda  fountain. 

It  rang  metallically  and  the  druggist 
dropped  the  glass  he  had  been  polishing.  Be- 
hind the  thick  glasses  the  druggist’s  eyes  got 
wide  and  scared,  and  he  stood  there  without 
moving  his  body  but  his  head  swiveled  back 
and  forth  from  one  end  of  the  store  to  the 
other.  He  didn’t  seem  to  realize  or  notice 
that  he’d  dropped  and  broken  a glass.  The 
towel  too  fell  from  his  fingers. 

Then  his  hand  went  forward,  covered  the 
coin  and  picked  it  up.  Again  he  looked  both 
ways  as  though  making  sure  he  and  Keith 
were  alone  in  the  store.  Then,  shielding  the 
coin  deep  in  his  cupped  hands,  he  stared  at 
it,  moving  it  close  to  his  eyes.  He  turned  it 
over  and  studied  the  other  side. 

Then  his  frightened  eyes  went  back  to 
Keith’s  face. 

“Beautiful!”  he  said.  “Hardly  worn  at 
all.  And  a nineteen  twenty -eight.”  His 
voice  was  so  soft  it  was  almost  a whisper. 
“But — who  sent  you?” 

Keith  closed  his  eyes  and  opened  them 
again.  “Either  I’m  crazy,”  he  thought,  “or 
he  is.” 

“Nobody,”  he  said. 

The  little  druggist  smiled  slowly.  “You 
don’t  want  to  tell.  It  must  have  been  K. 
Well,  never  mind  that,  in  case  it  wasn’t.  I’ll 
take  a chance.  I’ll  give  you  a thousand  cred- 
its for  it.” 

Keith  didn’t  say  anything. 

“Two  thousand,  then.  I know  it’s  worth 
more  but  that’s  all  I can  give  you.  If  my 
wife — ” 

“All  right,”  Keith  said. 

The  hand  that  held — and  concealed — the 
coin  dived  into  the  druggist’s  pocket  like  a 
prairie-dog  popping  into  its  hole.  Unnoticed 
glass  crunched  under  the  druggist’s  shoes  as 
he  walked  down  to  the  cash  register  at  the 
end  of  the  counter  and  punched  a key.  No 
Sale  came  up  behind  the  glass.  He  came 
back,  counting  bills,  and  put  a pile  of  them 
in  front  of  Keith  Winton. 

“Two  thousand,”  he  said.  “Almost  breaks 
me  but  I guess  it’s  worth  it.  I’m  a little 
crazy,  I guess.” 

Keith  picked  up  the  bills  and  looked  long 
and  hard  at  the  top  one.  There  was  a fa- 


The  match  fUme  revealed  a hideous  scarred  lace — and  above  it  a dttb  raised  to  strike  (CHAPTER  V) 


miliar  picture  of  George  Washington  in  the 
center  of  it.  The  figure  in  the  comers  was 
100  and  under  the  oval  portrait  of  Washing- 
ton was  spelled  out  One  Hundred  Credits. 

And  that  was  silly,  too,  Keith  thought. 
Washington’s  picture  belonged  only  on  one 
dollar  bills.  Unless  things  were  different 
here.  Here? 

He  looked  again,  read  more  printing. 
United  States  of  America,  he  read.  Feder- 
al Reserve  Note.  And  it  wasn’t  a new  bill. 
It  looked  worn  and  circulated  and  genuine. 
There  were  the  familiar  little  silk  threads.  A 
serial  number  in  blue  ink.  To  the  right  of 
the  portrait,  Series  of  1935,  and  a repro- 
duced signature,  Fred  M.  Vinson,  over  fine 
type,  Secretary  of  the  Treasury. 


Slowly,  Keith  folded  the  little  stack  of  bills 
and  put  them  into  his  coat  pocket. 

He  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met  those  of 
the  druggist,  looking  out  at  him  through  the 
thick  spectacles,  looking  anxiously.  The 
druggist’s  voice  was  anxious,  too. 

He  said,  “It’s — it’s  all  right,  isn’t  it? 
You’re  not  an  agent?  I mean,  if  you  are 
you've  got  me  now,  for  collecting  and  you 
might  as  well  arrest  me  and  get  it  over  with. 
I took  a chance  and,  if  I lose,  there’s  no  use 
keeping  me  in  suspense,  is  there?’’ 

“No,”  Keith  said  slowly.  “It’s  all  right. 
Can  I have  another  Pepsi,  please?” 

This  time  some  of  the  Pepsi  slopped  out 
as  the  druggist  put  it  down  on  the  marble. 
And,  as  glass  again  crunched  under  the  drug- 
19 


STARTLING  STGRIES 


20 

gist’s  shoes,  he  smiled  nervously  and  apolo- 
getically at  Keith,  got  a broom  from  the  cor- 
ner and  began  to  sweep  behind  the  counter. 

Keith  sipped  his  second  Pepsi  and 
thought.  If,  that  is,  one  could  call  the 
whirl  of  things  inside  his  head  thinking.  It 
was-  more  like  a ride  on  a pinwheel.  He 
watched  until  the  druggist  had  finished  with 
the  broom. 

“Look,”  he  said.  “I’d  like  to  ask  you  a 
few  questions  that  may  seem — uh — crazy  to 
you.  But  I’ve  got  a reason  for  asking  them. 
Will  you  answer  them,  no  matter  how  they 
sound  to  you?” 

The  druggist  looked  at  him  carefully. 
“What  kind  of  questions,  mister?” 

“Well — ^what  is  the  exact  date?” 

“June  tenth,  nineteen  fifty-two.” 

“A.  D.?” 

The  druggist’s  eyes  got  wider  again,  but 
he  said,  “Of  course.” 

“And  this  is  Greeneville,  New  York?” 
“Yes.  You  mean  you  don’t  know—” 
“Let  me  ask,”  Keith  said.  “Do  you  know 
a man  named  L.  A.  Borden  who  has  a big 
estate  near  here?  A magazine  publisher?” 
“No.  Of  course  I don’t  know  everybody 
around  here.” 

“You’ve  heard  of  the  Borden  chain  of 
magazines  that  he  runs?” 

“Oh  sure.  We  sell  them.  New  issues  just 
came  in  today  of  some  of  them.  Over  on  the 
stand  there.  The  July  issues.” 

“And  the  moon  rocket?  This  is  the  night 
it  lands?” 

“I  don’t  understand  what  you  mean,  ‘This 
is  the  night.’  It  lands  every  night.  It’s  in  by 
now.  We’ll  be  getting  customers  any  min- 
ute. Some  of  them  drop  in  on  their  way 
to  the  hotel.” 

Again,  for  a moment,  Keith  closed  his 
eyes.  He  thought,  “I’m  crazy  or  he  is.” 

He  opened  his  mouth  to  ask  another  ques- 
tion, closed  it  again.  He  was  afraid.  He 
wanted  something  familiar  to  reassure  him 
and  he  thought  he  knew  what  it  would  be. 
He  got  up  off  the  stool  and  walked  over  to 
the  rack  of  magazines.  He  saw  Perfect  Love 
Stories  first,  and  picked  it  up.  The  cover 
girl  reminded  him  a little  of  the  editor,  Betty 
Hadley — only  she  wasn’t  as  beautiful  as  Bet- 
ty. How  many  magazines,  he  wondered,  had 
^itors  more  beautiful  than  their  cover  girls  ? 
But  Betty  Hadley — 

He  shoved  Betty  Hadley  resolutely  to  the 
back  of  his  mind  and  looked  for  Surprising 


Stories  and  saw  it.  He  picked  it  up  too. 

Yes,  the  July  issue.  Just  the  same  as — 

Was  it?  The  cover  was  the  same  scene 
but  the  art  work  wasn’t  quite  the  same.  It 
was  better,  more  vivid.  It  was  Hooper’s 
technique,  all  right,  but  as  though  Hooper 
had  been  taking  lessons.  The  gal  on  the  cov- 
er was  more  breathtakingly  beautiful  than 
he’d  remembered  her  to  be  from  the  cover 
proofs  and  the  monster — he  shuddered. 

In  general  outline,  it  was  the  same  mon- 
ster but  there  was  a subtle  difference,  a hor- 
rible difference,  that  he  couldn’t  put  his  finger 
,on — and  felt  he  wouldn’t  want  to  put  his 
finger  on.  Not  even  wearing  asbestos  gloves. 

But  the  signature  was  there — when  he  was 
able  to  tear  his  eyes  away  from  the  monster. 
A tiny  crooked  characteristic  H that  was 
Hooper’s  way  of  signing  all  his  pics. 

And  then,  in  the  logo  at  the  bottom  right 
corner,  he  saw  the  price.  It  wasn’t  20c. 

. It  was  2 cr. 

Two  credits  f 

What  else? 

Very  slowly  and  carefully  he  folded  the 
two  magazines,  the  two  incredible  magazines 
(for  he  saw  now  that  Perfect  Love  Stories 
was  also  priced  at  2 cr.)  and  put  them  into 
his  pocket. 

He  wanted  to  get  off  somewhere  by  him- 
self and  study  those  two  books,  read  and 
digest  every  word  of  them. 

But  first,  he’d  have  to  pay  for  them  and 
get  out  of  here.  Two  credits?  How  much 
was  two  credits?  The  druggist  had  given 
him  two  thousand  credits  for  a quarter,  but 
that  could  hardly  be  a criterion.  That  quar- 
ter, for  some  reason  he’d  have  to  learn, 
was  a rare  and  precious  object  to  the  man 
who  had  bought  it  from  him. 

O,  THE  magazines  were  a better  clue. 
If  their  value  were  an  approximate 
criterion,  then  two  credits  was  roughly  equiv- 
alent to  twenty  cents.  And  if  that  were  true 
the  druggist  had  given  him  the  equivalent 
of — let’s  see — two  hundred  dollars  for  a 
quarter  in  hard  money. 

He  shouldn’t  have  done  it — he  should  have 
been  more  careful — but  the  shock  of  seeing 
that  almost-but-not-quite  cover  for  the  July 
book  of  his  own  doing  made  him  a bit  slap- 
happy  for  the  moment.  Change  rattled  in  his 
pocket  as  he  walked  back  to  the  soda  coun- 
ter. His  hand  plunged  into  his  pocket  and 
found  a half  dollar. 

How  would  the  druggist  react  to  that? 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


Casually,  he  tossed  it  down  on  the  marble, 
“m  take  the  two  magazines,”  he  said.  “Got 
change  for  a half?” 

The  druggist  reached  out  a hand  for  the 
coin  and  the  hand  trembled. 

Suddenly,  Keith  felt  ashamed  of  himself. 
He  shouldn’t  have  done  that.  And  it  would 
lead  to  conversation,  inevitably,  that  would 
keep  him  from  getting  off  by  himself  to  read 
the  magazines. 

He  said  gruffly,  “Keep  it.  You  can  have 
them  both — the  quarter  and  the  half — for 
what  you  gave  me.”  He  turned  and  started 
out  of  the  store. 

He  started — that  was  all. 

He  took  one  step  and  froze.  Something 
was  coming  in  the  open  doorway  of  the  drug- 
store. Something  that  wasn’t  human. 

Something  that  was  over  seven  feet  tall — 
so  tall  that  it  had  to  stoop  slightly  to  get 
through  the  doorw'ay — and  that  was  covered 
with  bright  purple  fur  except  for  its  hands, 
feet  and  face.  Its  hands  feet  and  face  were 
purple,  too.  Its  eyes  were  flat  white  disks, 
pupil-less.  It  didn’t  have  a nose,  but  it  had 
teeth,  plenty  of  teeth. 

And  suddenly,  from  behind,  a hand 
grabbed  Keith’s  arm  and  the  druggist’s  voice, 
suddenly  fierce  and  shrill  was  shouting; 

“Nineteen  forty-three!  A fake!  And  the 
other  must  be  a fake,  too.  He’s  a spy!  An 
Arcturian.  Get  him.  Hunan.  Kill  him!” 

The  purple  thing  in  the  doorway  made  a 
shrieking  noise  that  was  almost  supersonic 
in  pitch.  It  spread  its  purple  arms  and  came 
toward  him  looking  like  something  out  of  a 
nightmare  that  Gargantua  might  have. 

The  druggist,  yelling,  “Kill  him!  Kill 
him,  Lunan!”  was  climbing  up  Keith’s  back 
but — in  the  face  of  what  was  coming  at  him 
from  the  front  of  the  store — Keith  hardly 
noticed  that.  ' 

He  turned  and  ran  the  other  way,  to  the 
back  of  the  store,  losing  the  druggist  en- 
route.  There  had  to  be  a door  at  the  back 
of  the  store.  If  there  weren’t  he  had  a feeling 
he’d  make  one. 


CHAPTER  III 
Shoot  on  Sight 


There  was  a door.  Something  clawed 
down  his  back  as  he  went  through  it. 


21 

He  pulled  free,  heard  his  coat  rip.  He 
slammed  the  door  and  heard  a yelp  of  pain — 
not  a human  one — behind  him.  But  he  didn’t 
turn  around.  He  ran. 

He  didn’t  turn  until,  half  a block  away, 
he  heard  the  sound  of  a pistol  report  behind 
him  and  felt  a sudden  pain  as  though  a red- 
hot  poker  were  being  drawn  across  his  upper 
arm.  He  turned  his  head  then,  just  for  a 
second.  The  purple  thing  was  coming  after 
him.  It  was  about  halfway  between  the  door 
he’d  jvst  left  at  the  back  of  the  store  and 
Keith.  But,  despite  its  long  legs,  it  seemed 
to  run  slowly  and  awkwardly.  Apparently  he 
could  outdistance  it  easily. 

The  purple  thing  carried  no  weapon.  The 
shot  that  had  seared  Keith’s  shoulder,  he 
saw,  had  come  from  the  little  druggist  who, 
a big  old-fashioned  revolver  in  his  hand,  was 
standing  just  outside  the  door.  The  pistol 
was  aiming  for  another  shot.  He  heard  the 
shot  as  he  dived  into  the  areaway  between 
two  buildings — but  the  bullet  must  have  gone 
past  him  harmlessly  for  he  didn’t  feel  it. 

Then  he  was  between  the  buildings  and, 
for  a moment,  he  thought  he  had  run  into  a 
blind  alley.  There  was  only  a blank  brick 
wall  at  the  end  of  the  areaway.  But  there 
were  doors  to  the  buildings  on  either  side 
and  cme  of  them  was  standing  ajar.  He 
closed  and  locked  it  behind  him. 

He  stood  there  in  the  dimness,  panting, 
and  looked  about  him.  He  was  in  a hallway. 
Tow'ard  the  street,  stairs  led  upward.  In  the 
other  direction,  there  was  another  door.  That 
would  lead  to  the  alley. 

Sudden  hammering  sounded  on  the  door 
he  had  just  entered — hammering  and  the 
babble  of  excited  voices. 

Keith  ran  to  the  back  door,  opened  it  and 
was  out  into  the  alley.  He  ran  between  two 
buildings  that  would  front  on  the  next  street. 
He  slow'ed  down  his  pace  as  he  neared  the 
sidewalk  and  emerged  at  a normal  walk. 

He  turned  in  the  direction  that  would  take 
him  to  the  main  street,  half  a block  away, 
then  hesitated.  It  was  a fairly  crowded,  busy 
street.  Was  there  safety  or  danger  in 
crowds?  He  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a tree  a 
dozen  paces  short  of  the  corner  and  watched. 

It  looked  like  normal  traffic  on  a normal 
small  city  main  street — for  a moment.  Then, 
walking  arm  in  arm,  two  of  the  purple-furred 
monsters  went  by.  The  people  before  and 
after  them  paid  no  attention  to  them.  What- 
ever they  were,  they  were— accepted.  They 
were  normal.  They  belonged  here. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


22 

Here?  But  where,  what,  wh«i  was  here? 

What  mad  universe  that  took  for  granted 
an  alien  race  more  horrible  looking  than  the 
worst  Bern  that  had  ever  leered  from  a sci- 
ence-fiction magazine  cover? 

What  mad  universe  in  which  he  was  given 
what  seemed  to  be  the  equivalent  of  two 
hundred  dollars  for  a quarter  and  attacked 
when  he  offered  a half-dollar?  Yet  whose 
credit-currency  bore  a picture  of  George 
Washington  and  current  dates  and  which 
had  provided — they  were  still  folded  in  his 
pocket — current  and  only  subtly  different  is- 
sues of  Surprising  Stories  and  Perfect  Love 
Stories? 

A world  with  asthmatic  Model  T Fords — 
and  space-travel  ? There  must  be  space  trav- 
el. Those  purple  things  had  never  evolved 
on  Earth — if  this  were  Earth.  The  druggist 
had  said,  about  the  moon  rocket,  “It  lands 
every  night.” 

And  then — what  was  it  the  druggist  had 
shouted  just  before  the  Bern  had  attacked 
him?  “An  Arcturian  spy?"  But  that  was 
absurd.  Arcturus  was  light-years  away.  The 
druggist  had  called  the  monster  Lunan.  A 
proper  name— or  an  inhabitant  of  Luna? 

“.  . . It  lands  every  night.  It's  in  by  now. 
We’ll  be  getting  customers  any  minute.  Some 
of  them  drop  in  on  their  way  to  the  hotel.” 

Suddenly  Keith  was  aware  that  his  shoul- 
der hurt  him  and  that  there  was  a wet,  sticky 
feeling  on  his  upper  arm.  He  looked  down 
and  saw  that  the  sleeve  of  his  sport  jacket 
was  soaked  with  blood,  looking  black  rather 
than  red  in  the  twilight  and  the  shadow  of  the 
tree.  And  there  was  a deep  gouge  in  the 
cloth  where  the  bullet  had  creased  it. 

He  needed  attention  for  that  wound, 
to  stop  the  bleeding.  Why  not  walk 
out  there,  look  for  a policeman — were  there 
policemen  here? — and  give  himself  up,  tell 
the  truth  ? 

The  truth?  What  was  the  truth?  Tell 
them,  “You’re  all  wrong.  This  is  the  United 
States,  Earth,  Greeneville,  New  York,  and 
it’s  June,  nineteen  hundred  fifty-two,  all 
right — but  there  isn’t  any  space  travel  except 
an  experimental  rocket  that  hasn’t  landed 
yet  and  dollars  are  the  currency  and  not 
credits — even  if  they’ve  got  Fred  M.  Vin- 
son’s signature  and  Washington’s  picture — 
and  there  aren’t  any  purple  Bems  and  a guy 
named  L.  A.  Borden  lives  near  here  and  will 
explain  who  I am.” 

Impossible,  of  course.  From  what  he’d 


seen  and  heard  there  was  oiriy  (me  person 
here  who  would  believe  any  of  that  and  that 
one  person  would  promptly  be  locked  up  in  a 
nuthouse  if  nothing  worse. 

No,  he  didn’t  want  to  do  that.  Not  yet, 
anyway — not  until  he’d  had  time  to  orient 
himself  a little  better  and  find  out  what  it 
was  all  about. 

Somewhere,  blocks  away,  sirens  wailed, 
coming  closer.  Police  cars,  if  that  siren- 
sound  meant  the  same  thing  here  that  it  did 
jn  more  familiar  surroundings. 

Quickly  he  crossed  the  quiet  side  street, 
went  through  another  alley  and  then,  keep- 
ing in  the  shadows  as  much  as  possible,  put 
another  few  blocks  between  himself  and  the 
main  street.  He  shrank  back  into  the  shadow 
of  another  areaway  as  a squad  car  turned  the 
corner  with  siren  shrieking.  It  went  past. 

He  had  to  find  sanctuary  somewhere,  even 
though  there  was  risk  in  finding  it.  He 
couldn’t  wander  long  this  way  without  being 
seen — not  with  blood  on  his  sleeve  and  the 
back  of  his  coat,  he  remembered  now,  torn. 

There  w’as  a sign  Rooms  for  Rent  in  the 
window  of  the  next  building.  Did  he  dare 
take  a chance?  The  feel  of  blood  running 
dow'n  past  his  elbow  told  him  he’d  have  to. 

Keeping  in  the  shadows  as  much  as  he 
could,  he  went  to  the  door  and  looked  in 
through  the  glass.  Perhaps,  if  he  kept  his 
bad  side  aw'ay  from  the  clerk  . . . 

But  there  wasn’t  any  clerk  at  the  desk  in- 
side the  door.  There  was  a push-bell  on  the 
desk  and  a sign.  Ring  for  Clerk.  Perhaps  . . . 

He  opened  the  door  as  quietly  as  he  could 
and  closed  it  the  same  way.  He  tiptoed  to 
the  desk  and  studied  the  rack  behind  it. 
There  w’ere  a row  of  boxes,  some  with  mail, 
a few  with  keys  in  them.  He  looked  around 
carefully  and  then  leaned  across  the  desk 
and  picked  the  key  out  of  the  nearest  box. 
It  was  numbered  201. 

He  looked  around  again.  No  one  had  seen 
him.  He  tiptoed  to  the  stairs.  They  were 
carpeted  and  didn’t  creak  and  201  was  right 
at  the  head  of  them. 

Inside  the  room  he  locked  the  door  behind 
him  and  turned  on  the  light.  Now,  if  only 
the  occupant  of  201  didn’t  come  in  within 
the  next  half  hour,  he  had  a chance. 

He  stripped  off  his  coat  and  shirt  and 
studied  the  wound.  It  was  going  to  be  pain- 
ful but  not  dangerous.  The  gouge  was  half 
an  inch  deep  but  the  bleeding  was  already 
slowing  down. 

He  made  sure  by  looking  in  the  dresser 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


2j 


drawer  that  the  missing  occupant  of  201  had 
shirts — within  half  a size  of  his  own — and 
then  he  ripped  apart  the  shirt  be  had  just 
taken  off  and  used  it  to  bandage  the  arm, 
winding  it  around  and  around  so  that  the 
blood  would  soak  through  slowly  if  at  all. 

Then  he  appropriated  a dark  shirt  from 
the  dresser — picking  a dark  one  because  his 
own  had  been  white — and  a necktie  from  the 
rack.  One  of  three  suits  that  hung  in  the 
closd;  was  dark  blue,  a perfect  contrast  to  bis 
own  light  tan  and  he  put  it  on.  There  was  a 
straw  hat  too.  At  first  he  thought  it  too  big 
for  him  but,  with  a little  paper  folded  under 
the  sweat-band,  it  served. 

He  made  a quick  estimate  and  translation 
of  the  value  of  the  things  he’d  taken,  and  left 
a five-hundred-credit  note  on  the  bureau. 
Fifty  dollars  should  be  ample.  The  suit,  the 
main  item,  was  neither  new  nor  expensive. 

He  made  his  own  clothes  into  a bundle, 
wrapped  with  some  newspaper  that  had  b^n 
in  the  closet.  Much  as  he  wanted  to  study 
and  read  those  newspapers,  he  knew  that  get- 
ting out  of  here  and  to  a safer  place  came 
first. 

He  opened  the  door  and  listened.  There 
was  still  no  sound  from  the  little  lobby 
downstairs.  He  went  down  the  stairs  as  si- 
lently as  he  had  come  up  them  and  was  safdy 
outside  again.  Now,  with  a complete  change 
of  clothing,  with  no  blood  visible  from  his 
wounded  arm,  he  needn’t  fear  the  prowling 
cars.  Only  the  druggist — or  the  Lunan — 
could  identify  him  and  he’d  give  the  drug- 
store a wide  berth. 

He  got  rid  of  his  bundle  in  the  first  handy 
waste  receptacle  and  then,  walking  as  non- 
chalantly as  he  could,  ventured  onto  the 
crowded  main  street  of  the  town. 

OW,  with  his  appearance  reasonably 
changed,  he  dared  look  for  sanctuary 
for  the  night — and  a place  where  he  could 
study  at  leisure  the  two  magazines  in  his 
pocket.  He  had  an  idea  those  were  going  to 
be  the  most  interesting  magazines  he’d  ever 
read. 

He  walked  in  the-  direction  opposite  that 
of  the  drugstore  where  disaster  had  so  nearly 
befallen  him.  He  passed  a man’s  haberdash- 
ery, a sporting  goods  store,  a theater  at  which 
was  playing  a picture  he  had  seen  in  New 
York  two  months  before.  Everything  seemed 
normal  and  ordinary.  The  people  about  him 
were  normal  and  ordinary.  For  a moment, 
he  wondered  if — 


24  STABTUNG  STORIES  _ 

Then  he  came  to  a newsstand  with  a rack  ship.  That  was  what  came  first 
of  newspapers  in  front  of  it.  The  headline 

read : ...  Borden  Publications,  Inc.  . . . L.  A.  Bor- 

den, Editor  and  Publisher.  Keith  Winton, 
ARCS  ATTACK  MARS;  DESTROY  KAPi  Managing  Editor. 


Earth  Colony  Unprepared 
Dopelle  Vows  Vengeance 

He  stepped  closer  to  read  the  date.  It  was 
today’s  issue  of  the  Netv  York  Times,  as 
familiar  typographically  as  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  He  picked  the  top  copy  off  the  rack 
and  w'ent  into  the  store  with  it.  He  handed 
the  newsdealer  a hundred  credit  note  and  got 
ninety-nine  credits  in  change — all  in  bills 
like  the  ones  he  had  except  in  smaller  de- 
nominations. He  stuffed  the  paper  in  his 
pocket  and  hurried  out. 

A few  doors  farther  on  was  a hotel.  He 
checked  in,  signing— after  a second’s  hesita- 
tion while  he  picked  up  the  pen — his  right 
name  and  address.  There  wasn’t  any  bell- 
hop. The  clerk  handed  him  the  key  and  told 
him  where  to  find  the  room,  at  the  end  of  the 
corridor  on  the  second  floor. 

Two  minutes  later,  with  the  door  closed 
and  locked  behind  him,  he  took  a deep  breath 
of  relief  and  sat  down  on  the  bed.  For  the 
first  time  since  whatever  had  happened  in  the 
drugstore  he  felt  safe. 

He  took  the  newspaper  and  the  magazines 
from  his  pocket,  then  got  up  again  to  hang 
his  coat  and  hat  on  the  hanger  inside  the 
door.  As  he  did  so,  he  noticed  two  knobs 
and  a dial  on  the  wall  beside  the  doorway, 
above  a six  inch  circular  area  of  cloth — ob- 
viously a built-in  radio  with  the  cloth  cover- 
ing a speaker  outlet. 

He  turned  the  knob  that  looked  like  a 
rheostat  and  it  was.  A faint  hum  responded 
immediately.  He  turned  the  tuning  dial  un- 
til a station  came  in  clear  and  strong,  then 
turned  down  the  volume  a little.  It  was  good 
music— sounded  like  Benny  Goodman,  al- 
though he  didn’t  recognize  the  tune. 

He  went  back  to  the  bed,  took  off  his  shoes 
to  be  comfortable  and  propped  pillows  up 
against  the  head  of  the  bed.  He  picked  up, 
first,  his  own  book,  Surprising  Stories.  He 
stared  again,  wdth  growing  wonder,  at  the 
cover — incredibly  the  same  picture,  incred- 
ibly different. 

He  opened  it  quickly  to  the  contents  page 
and  didn’t  even  glance  at  the  table  of  con- 
tents until  he  read  the  statement  of  owner- 


He  found  he’d  been  holding  his  breath  a 
little.  He  belonged  here  then  (wherever 
here  was)  and  he  still  had  a job.  And  Mr. 
Borden  too — but  what  had  happened  to 
Borden’s  country  estate,  the  estate  that  had 
literally  fallen  out  from  under  him? 

Another  thought  struck  him,  and  he 
grabbed  up  the  love  story  book  and  almost 
tore  it  getting  it  open  to  the  contents  page. 
Yes — Betty  Hadley  was  Managing  Editor. 

It  still  read  Whaley  Publishing  Co.,  of 
course.  This  issue  was  before  Borden  had 
bought  the  magazine. 

Whatever  mad  universe  this  was,  he  had  a 
job  here  and  Betty  Hadley  was  here. 

He  sighed  a little  with  relief.  Betty  Had- 
ley— this  couldn’t  be  too  bad  a place. 

The  tune  on  the  radio  stopped  suddenly, 
as  though  someone  had  shut  off  a record.  A 
voice  cut  in : 

“Special  news  bulletin.  Second  warning 
to  citizens  of  Greeneville  and  surrounding 
territory.  The  Arcturian  spy  reported  half 
an  hour  ago  has  not  yet  been  apprehended. 
All  railway  stations  and  spaceports  are  be- 
ing closely  guarded  and  a house-to-house 
search  is  being  instituted.  All  citizens  are 
requested  to  be  on  the  alert. 

“Go  armed.  Shoot  on  sight.  Mistakes 
may  be  made  but  again  we  remind  you  that 
it  is  better  that  a hundred  innocent  people  die 
than  that  the  spy  escape  to  cause  the  loss, 
perhaps,  of  a million  Terrestrial  lives. 

“We  repeat  the  description  ...” 

SCARCELY  breathing,  Keith  Winton  lis- 
tened to  that  description.  About  five 
feet  nine  . . . one-sixty  pounds  . . . tan  suit, 
white  sport  shirt  open  at  the  collar  . . . 

He  let  his  breath  out  slowly.  They  hadn’t 
discovered  his  change  of  clothes  then.  And 
there  was  no  mention  of  his  being  wounded. 
The  druggist,  then,  didn’t  know  that  one  of 
the  shots  he’d  fired  had  hit. 

The  physical  description  was  fairly  dose 
but  that  couldn’t  be  too  dangerous  if  they 
didn’t  know  the  clothes  he  was  wearing  now 
or  the  fact  that  his  upper  arm  would  be 
bandaged.  If  only  the  man  whose  room  he 
had  burgled  at  the  rooming  house  didn’t 
come  home  and  find  the  dark  suit  missing, 


WHAT  MAD 

and  tie  it  in  with  the  broadcasts — 

But — ye  gods,  what  had  he  walked  into? 
“SJwat  on  sight!” 

At  least  that  ended  but  definitely  his  half- 
formed  intention  to  go  to  the  police  with  the 
truth  as  soon  as  he’d  oriented  himself  a bit. 
Somehow,  he  was  in  deadly  danger  here  and 
there  wouldn’t  be  any  chance  to  explain. 
Somehow  he’d  have  to  get  back  to  New 
York,  and — but  what  would  New  York  be 
like  ? As  he  knew  it  or  otherwise  ? 

It  was  getting  hot  and  stuffy  in  the  room. 
He  went  over  to  the  window  and  opened  it, 
then  stood  looking  out  at  the  street  below. 
So  ordinary  a street,  such  ordinary  people. 
And  then  three  of  the  tall  purple  monsters, 
arm  in  arm,  came  out  of  the  theater  lobby 
across  the  way  and  nobody  on  the  street  paid 
any  attention  to  them. 

He  stepped  back  suddenly  from  the  win- 
dow, for  one  of  the  purple  things  might,  for 
all  he  knew,  be  the  one  that  had  seen  him  in 
the  drugstore;  they  all  looked  alike  to  him 
but  it  might  recognize  him  if  it  saw  him  at 
the  window. 

He  was  trembling  a little  at  a sudden 
thought.  Was  he  crazy?  If  so,  it  was  the 
craziest  form  of  craziness  he’d  ever  heard  of 
and  he’d  studied  abnormal  psychology  at 
college.  And,  if  he  were  crazy,  which  was 
the  delusion — this  world  he’d  just  discovered 
or  his  memories  of  a world  without  space 
travel  and  purple  Bems  ? 

Were  all  his  memories  wrong?  Or — 
whatf 

There  were  footsteps  along  the  corridor 
outside  his  door,  footsteps  of  three  or  four 
people. 

There  was  a knock  at  his  door.  A voice 
said,  “Police.” 


CHAPTER  IV  - 
Manhattan  Madness 


MEITH  took  a deep  breath  and  thought 
fast.  The  radio  had  just  told  him  that 
a house-to-house  search  was  being  made, 
probably  that’s  all  this  was.  As  someone 
who’d  just  checked  into  the  hotel  he’d  be 
investigated  first,  of  course.  Aside  from  his 
time  of  checking  in,  they  could  have  no 
grounds  for  suspicion. 

Was  there  anything  on  him  that  would 


UNIVEESE  25 

give  him  away  if  he  were  searched?  His 
money — ^money  that  was  in  dollars  and  cents 
insterfo  of  credits.  That  was  all.  Quickly  he 
took  from  his  pocket  the  change  he  had  left 
— a quarter,  two  dimes  and  some  pennies. 
From  his  billfold  he  took  the  bills — three 
tens  and  some  singles — that  weren’t  credit 
tails.  He  wrapped  the  change  in  the  bills, 
making  a small  tight  wad,  and  reached  out 
throng  the  window,  putting  them  on  the 
corner  of  the  window  ledge  out  of  sight 

Then  he  went  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
room. 

Three  men,  two  of  them  in  police  uniform, 
stood  there.  The  uniformed  ones  held  drawn 
revolvers  in  their  hands.  It  was  the  other, 
the  man  in  a gray  business  suit,  who  spoke. 

He  said,  “Sorry,  sir.  We’re  making  a 
routine  check-up.  You’ve  heard  the  broad- 
'C3.sts 

“Of  course,”  Keith  said.  “Come  in.” 

They  came  in,  ready  and  alert.  The  muz- 
zles of  the  pistols  were  aimed  at  his  chest 
and  they  didn’t  waver  a bit.  The  cold  sus- 
picious eyes  of  the  man  in  gray  didn’t  waver 
from  his  face  either.  But  his  voice  was  polite. 
“Your  name?” 

“Keith  Winton.” 

“Occupation?” 

“Editor.  Manag^ing  Editor,  that  is,  of 
Surprising  Stories.”  Keith  gestured  casual- 
ly at  the  magazine  lying  on  the  bed. 

The  muzzle  of  one  of  the  revolvers 
dropped  a little  and  a broad  grin  came  across 
the  face  of  the  man  behind  it. 

“The  heck!”  said  the  uniformed  man. 
“Then  you  run  the  Rocketalk  Department, 
don’t  you?  You’re  The  Rocketeer?” 

Keith  nodded. 

“Then  maybe  you  remember  my  name? 
John  Garrett  I’ve  written  you  some  letters 
and  you  published  two  of  them.”  Quickly  he 
transfered  his  pistol  to  his  left  hand  and 
stuck  out  his  right 

Keith  shook  it.  “Sure,”  he  said.  “You’re 
the  guy  who  keeps  trying  to  talk  us  into  run- 
ning color  on  our  inside  illustrations,  even  if 
we  have  to  raise  the  price  a d — ” He  caught 
himself  quickly.  “ — a credit.” 

The  man’s  grin  got  broader  and  his  pistol 
dropped  to  his  side.  “Sure,”  he  said.  “That’s 
me.  I’ve  been  a fan  of  your  magazine  ever 
since — ” 

The  man  in  gray  cleared  his  throat.  He 
said,  “That’ll  do.  Sergeant.  We’re  on  busi- 
ness, remember?” 

But  his  attitude  was  more  relaxed  as  he 


STARTLING  STORIES 


26 

smiled  at  Keith,  and  some  of  the  stiffness  had 
gone  out  of  his  face  and  voice.  “Guess  you’re 
all  right,  Mr.  Winton.  But,  as  routine,  do 
you  have  identification?’’ 

Keith  nodded  and  started  to  reach  for  the 
wallet  in  his  hip  pocket,  but  the  man  in  gray 
said,  “Wait.  If  you  don’t  mind — ” 

And,  whether  Keith  minded  or  not,  he 
stepped  around  behind  Keith  and  ran  his 
hands  swiftly  over  all  of  Keith’s  pockets, 
ending  by  removing  the  wallet  himself,  glanc- 
ing inside  it  and  then  handing  it  back. 
“Okay,”  he  said,  “if—” 

He  went  to  the  closet,  opened  the  door  and 
looked  inside.  He  opened  the  dresser  draw- 
ers, looked  under  the  bed,  made  a quick  but 
reasonably  thorough  search. 

“You  have  no  luggage?” 

Keith  said,  “Didn’t  expect  to  stay  here 
overnight.  Came  on  business  and  it  took  me 
longer  than  I expected.” 

The  man  in  gray  finished  his  search.  He 
said,  “Sorry  to  have  bothered  you.  Mr. 
Winton.  By  the  way,  I’m  Captain  Hoffman. 
If  there’s  anything  I can  do  for  you — you’re 
going  back  to  New  York  tomorrow  morn- 
ing  ?’’ 

Keith  had  been  thinking  about  that.  Some- 
time tonight  the  man  whose  suit  he  was 
wearing  was  going  to  discover  it  was  missing 
and  possibly  report  it  to  the  police.  It  might 
be  better  if  he  could  run  the  gauntlet  of  the 
railroad  station  now,  while  things  looked 
good. 

He  said.  “I’ve  been  thinking  about  that, 
Captain.  Going  back  in  the  morning,  I mean. 
It’ll  get  me  in  at  the  office  so  late ; I think 
I’m  going  to  change  my  mind  and  go  back 
tonight.  I was  tired  when  I decided  to  stay 
over  here  but  I’m  feeling  better  now.  Will  I 
have  any  trouble  at  the  station?” 

“Possibly.  They’re  screening  pretty  close 
at  all  the  outlets.  I’ll  write  you  a note  if  you 
like.” 

“Fine,”  Keith  told  him.  “I’ll  appreciate 
it.” 

Half  an  hour  later,  he  was  on  an  un- 
crowded ti'ain  to  New  York.  He  had  a seat 
to  himself  and  two  hours  of  leisure  to  read 
the  two  magazines  and  the  newspaper  he  had 
bought. 

The  newspaper  came  first. 

ARCS  ATTACK  MARS;  DESTROY  KAPI 

That  was  the  news,  the  big  news.  He  read 


it  carefully.  Kapi,  it  seemed,  was  an  Earth 
colony  on  Mars  established  in  1939,  the 
fourth  of  the  seven  colonies  established  there. 
It  was  smaller  than  most  of  the  others.  There 
had  been  eight  hundred  and  forty  Terrestrial 
colonists.  All  had  been  killed  as  well  as  an 
estimated  hundred  and  fifty  Martian  labor- 
ers. 

Then,  Keith  realized,  there  must  be  Mar- 
tians as  distinguished  from  Terrestrial  emi- 
grants. What  were  they  like?  There  wasn’t 
any  clue  in  the  news  article.  Were  they 
Bems — bug-eyed  monsters  like  the  purple 
beings  from  the  Moon? 

He  read  on.  A single  ship  of  Arcturians 
had  somehow  got  through  the  cordon  of 
spaceguards,  and  had  launched  a single 
torpedo  before  the  Dopelle  fighters  had  de- 
tected it.  They  had  attacked  at  once  and.  al- 
though the  Arcturian  vessel  had  switched  to 
interstellar  flight,  they  had  pursued  and 
destro}'ed  it. 

Preparations  were  being  made  for  a coun- 
ter-raid. The  details  were,  of  course,  a mili- 
tar\'  secret. 

There  were  a lot  of  names  and  things  that 
meant  nothing  to  him.  Somehow  it  struck 
him  strangely  when  he  came  across  a familiar 
one — General  Dwight  D.  Eisenhower,  for 
example,  in  charge  of  Venus  Sector. 

Then  there  were  words  and  references 
that  puzzled  him — the  phrase  “all-city  mist- 
out”  and  frequent  references  to  “the  rene- 
gades” and  “the  Nighters.” 

He  went  through  the  paper  from  first  page 
to  last,  hunting  clues  to  the  differences  be- 
tween this  world  and  the  one  he  knew.  There 
seemed  to  be  so  amazingly  little  difference 
on  the  domestic  scene — so  amazingly  great  a 
difference  on  the  cosmic  scale. 

The  society  news  was  there,  the  sport 
news — St.  Louis  was  leading  one  major  lea- 
gue and  New  York  the  other — and  the  ads 
were  the  same  except  that  prices  were  given 
in  credits  instead  of  dollars.  But  basically 
the  same  merchandise  was  offered — no 
slightly-used  space  ships,  no  Little  Wonder 
Atomic  Kits  for  the  kiddies. 

He  studied  the  want-ads  particularly.  The 
housing  situation  seemed  a bit  better  than  he 
remembered  it — occasionally  a flat  or  house 
was  offered  for  sale  with  the  comment.  “Emi- 
grating to  Mars,”  and  one  Pets  for  Sale  ad 
offered  a Venus  coline  and  another  a moon- 
pup. 

It  was  one  o’clock  when  his  train  pulled 
into  Grand  Central.  There  were  the  usual 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


27 


lights  in  the  station,  Keith  noticed  as  he  got 
off  the  train  but  there  was  something  differ- 
ent otherwise  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  station 
— something  he  couldn’t  quite  put  his  finger 
on.  He  realized,  too,  as  he  walked  along  with 
others  down  the  long  walk  between  the 
tracks  to  the  main  hall  of  the  station,  that  the 
train  had  not  been  crowded.  His  car  had 
been  only  a third  filled. 

There  weren’t  any  other  trains  unloading 
and  all  the  redcaps  seemed  to  have  gone.  Just 
ahead  of  Keith,  a little  man  was  struggling  to 
carry  three  suitcases,  one  in  each  hand  and 
one  under  his  arm.  He  was  having  heavy 
going. 

“Give  you  a hand  with  one  of  those?” 
Keith  asked. 

The  little  man  said,  “Sure — thanks,”  with 
real  gratitude  in  his  voice  as  he  relinquished 
one  of  the  suitcases.  A twinge  in  Keith’s  left 
shoulder  reminded  him  in  time  not  to  take 
the  suitcase  with  his  left  hand. 

He  moved  around  to  the  right  side  of  the 
little  fellow  and  said  casually,  “Not  much 
traffic  tonight,  is  there?” 

“That  was  the  last  train  in,  I guess. 
Shouldn’t  really  run  ’em  that  late.  What’s 
the  use  of  getting  in  if  you  can’t  go  home? 
Oh,  sure,  you  got  a better  start  in  the  morn- 
ing, but — ” 

Keith  said,  “Sure,”  and  wondered  what 
they  were  talking  about. 

“Eighty-seven  killed  last  night!”  the  little 
man  said.  “Sixty-some  the  night  before. 
Just  in  New  York  and  that’s  just  the  ones 
killed  outright.  Heaven  knows  how  many 
got  dragged  down  alleys  and  beat  up  but  not 
killed.”  He  sighed.  “I  remember  when  it 
was  safe  even  on  Broadway.” 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  put  down 
the  suitcases.  “Got  to  rest  a minute,” 


he  said.  “If  you  want  to  go  on  just  leave 
that  other  one.”  He  flexed  his  hands, 
cramped  from  the  handles  of  the  suitcases. 

“No  hurry,”  Keith  said.  He  was  casting 
about  in  bis  mind  for  ways  in  which  he  could 
ask  questions  without  arousing  suspicion. 
“Uh — -I  haven’t  heard  a newscast  for  a while. 
Have  you?  Anything  new?” 

“Arcturian  spy  in  the  country.  That  was 
on  early  in  the  evening.  That’s  worse  news 
than  Kapi.”  He  shuddered  slightly. 

Keith  nodded.  “Haven’t  heard  a news- 
cast but  I heard  someone  mention  that. 
What’s  it  about  ? I mean,  how  do  they  know 
there’s  one  loose,  if  they  didn’t  catch  him?” 
“Catch  him?  Lord,  mister,  you  don’t 
catch  Arcturians ; you  kill  ’em.  But  this  one 
got  away.  Upstate  in  Greeneville.  Tried  to 
sell  somebody  some  banned  coinage  and  one 
of  the  coins  was  one  of  the  Arc  counterfeits, 
one  of  the  wrong-dated  ones.” 

“Oh,”  Keith  said.  It  had  been  the  coin, 
then.  He’d  felt  pretty  sure  of  it.  Ple’d  have 
to  watch  the  rest  of  those  coins  he  had.  May- 
be it  would  be  smarter  to  get  rid  of  them  as 
soon  as  he  could,  down  the  nearest  sewer. 
It  would  be  so  easy  to  forget  and  hand  one  to 
someone  when  he  bought  something  small, 
instead  of  one  of  the  credit  bills. 

Right  now  the  coins,  wrapped  tightly  in 
his  dollar  currency  so  they  wouldn’t  rattle, 
made  a hard  and  suddenly  uncomfortable 
lump  in  his  right  trouser  pocket.  Maybe,  he 
thought,  he  should  have  left  them  on  the  win- 
dowsill of  his  hotel  room  in  Greeneville  in- 
stead of  recovering  them,  as  he  had,  by  pre- 
tending to  lean  out  the  -window  for  a look 
around  before  he  closed  it  and  left  the  room 
with  the  Greeneville  policemen. 

No,  that  might  have  been  dangerous,  too. 
If  he’d  left  them  and  they’d  been  found — 

[Turn  page’] 


SKOMO  -secrze/i 


Millions  turn  to  Bromo*Seltzer 
to  relieve  ordinar?  headache 
three  ways.  It’s  famous  for  giv-. 
iog  fast,  pleasant  help.  Cautiom 
Use  only  as  directed.  Get  Bromo* 
Seltzer  at  your  drugstore 
fountain  or  counter  today,  1 
A product  of  Bmersoa  / 
Drug  Co.  since  1887,  /] 


25  STARTLING 

well,  they’d  seen  his  name  in  his  wallet; 
there’d  be  a tie-in  between  Keith  Winton 
and  the  Arcturian  spy  they  were  looking  for. 
And  then  the  New  York  police  would  be 
looking  for  Keith  Winton.  Yes,  it  was  well 
that  he’d  recovered  them  temporarily. 

The  little  man  flexed  his  hands  again  and 
picked  up  the  two  suitcases.  “Guess  I can 
make  it  the  rest  of  the  way,’’  he  said.  “If 
you’re  ready — ” 

Keith  picked  up  the  other  suitcase  and 
they  started  along  the  tracks  again  toward 
the  station  lobby. 

“Hope  there  are  cots  left,”  the  little  man 
said. 

Keith  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it  again. 
Any  question  he  asked  might  give  him  away 
— if  it  were  a question  to  which  he  should 
know  the  answer  without  asking.  He  said, 
“Probably  won’t  be,”  in  a humorously  pes- 
simistic voice  that  could  be  taken  as  a joke 
if  it  was  the  wrong  thing  to  say. 

They  were  nearing  the  lobby  now  and  a 
redcap  came  toward  them.  The  little  man 
sighed  with  relief  and  put  down  the  suitcases 
and  Keith  handed  over  t’ne  one  he’d  been 
carrying. 

“Cots?”  the  redcap  asked  them.  “A  few 
left.” 

“Yes,”  Keith’s  companion  said.  “For  me, 
anyway.”  He  turned  to  Keith.  “You’re  not 
— uh— ” 

“Thanks,  no,”  Keith  said.  “Think  I’d  bet- 
ter get  home.” 

The  little  man  shook  his  head  slowly  and 
sadly.  “Too  much  of  a chance  for  me  to  take. 
I’d  rather  be  sure  of  seeing  tomorrow.  Well 
— good  luck  and  thanks  for  the  lift  with  that 
suitcase.” 

“Don’t  mention  it,”  Keith  said. 

They  were  walking  through  now  into  the 
main  lobby  of  the  station.  Keith  almost 
stumbled. 

There  were  army-type  cots  as  far  as  he 
could  see,  in  neat  orderly  rows  in  the  dimly 
lighted  lobby.  On  most  of  the  cots  people  lay 
asleep. 

Could  the  housing  situation  be  this  des- 
perate? he  wondered.  No,  it  couldn’t  be 
that,  not  for  the  number  of  for-rent  ads  in 
the  newspaper  in  his  pocket.  But  what  then  ? 
Why  else  were  thousands  of  people  sleeping 
uncomfortably  and  unprivately  in  Grand 
Central  station? 

If  only  there  were  some  way  he  could  ask 
questions  without  drawing  attention  and 
suspicion. 


STORIES 

He  threaded  his  way  through  the  dimness, 
walking  as  quietly  as  he  could  so  as  not  to 
awake  the  sleepers  he  passed,  heading  for 
the  42nd  Street  entrance.  As  he  neared  it 
he  saw  there  were  two  policemen  posted  at 
each  of  the  doors. 

But  he  couldn’t  stop  now.  The  ones  he 
was  approaching  had  seen  him  coming  and 
were  watching  him.  He  tried  to  walk  past 
them  casually.  He  noticed  now  that  the  glass 
panels  of  the  doors  had  been  painted  black  on 
the  outside. 

The  bigger  of  the  two  policemen  spoke  as 
Keith  reached  for  the  door  to  open  it.  But 
his  voice  was  courteous,  respectful — even, 
Keith  thought,  a little  awed. 

“Are  you  armed,  sir?”  he  asked. 

“No.” 

“It’s  pretty  dangerous  out  there,”  the 
policeman  said.  “We  haven’t  the  authority 
to  make  you  stay,  but  we  advice  it.” 

» ANGER ! Was  it  some  danger  of  which 
he  knew  nothing  that  kept  these  thou- 
sands of  people,  the  late  arrivals  on  the  last 
trains  from  here  and  there,  inside  the  sta- 
tion? What  had  happened  to  New  York? 
But  it  was  too  late  for  him  to  back  down 
now.  Besides,  he  thought  grimly,  he  was  in 
danger  anywhere  until  he  knew  the  score 
and  the  ropes  a lot  better  than  he  did. 

He  said  as  casually  as  he  could,  “Haven’t 
far  to  go.  I’ll  be  all  right.” 

“It’s  your  business,”  said  one  of  the  cops. 
And  the  other  grinned.  “We  hope  it  ain’t 
your  funeral.  Okay,  mister.”  He  opened  the 
door. 

Keith  almost  stepped  back.  It  hadn’t  been 
black  paint  on  the  outside  of  the  panes.  It 
had  been — blackness.  A kind  of  utter  black 
darkness  he’d  never  seen  before.  Not  a 
glimmer  of  light  showed  anwhere.  The 
dimmed  lights  inside  the  station  didn’t  seem 
to  cut  into  that  blackness  at  all.  Looking 
down,  he  could  see  the  paving  of  the  walk 
for  only  a foot  or  two  beyond  the  edge  of  the 
open  doorway. 

And — was  it  his  imagination,  or  was  a 
little  of  that  outside  blackness  drifting  into 
the  station  itself,  through  the  open  door,  as 
though  it  weren’t  darkness  at  all  but  a pal- 
pable blackness,  a mist,  a pall? 

But  he  couldn’t  admit — whatever  was  out 
there — that  he  hadn’t  known  about  it.  He 
had  to  go  through  that  open  doorway  now, 
whatever  it  led  to. 

He  walked  through  and  the  door  closed  be- 


WHAT  MAD 

hind  him.  It  had  been  like  walking  into  a 
closet.  This  was  a blackout  beyond  black- 
outs. It  must  be — he  remembered  that 
phrase — “the  mist-out,”  one  of  the  many 
things  he’d  wondered  about  while  reading 
the  newspaper.  This  must  be  it. 

He  looked  up,  and  there  wasn’t  a sign  of 
moon  or  star — and  it  had  been,  in  Greene- 
ville  at  least,  a bright  clear  night.  Yes,  un- 
doubtedly this  wasn’t  darkness.  It  was  a 
black  mist. 

Reaching  out  to  touch  the  building  and 
trailing  his  hand  along  it  as  he  walked,  grop- 
ing with  his  free  hand  before  him,  he  started 
walking  west,  toward  the  Vanderbilt  Avenue 
corner.  He  kept  his  eyes  open,  straining 
against  the  black,  but  he  might  as  well  have 
closed  them  for  all  the  good  they  did  him. 
He  knew  now  how  a blind  man  felt.  A cane, 
to  tap  ahead  of  him  on  the  invisible  sidewalk, 
would  have  been  welcome. 

Why  hadn’t  he  followed  the  little  man’s 
lead  and  taken  a cot  in  the  station? 

His  trailing  hand  encountered  emptiness, 
the  corner  of  the  building.  He  paused  a mo- 
ment, wondering  if  he  should  go  on  at  all.  He 
couldn’t  go  back  into  the  station  but  why 
not  just  sit  down  here  on  the  walk,  his  back 
to  the  building,  and  wait  for  morning — if 
morning  did  bring  dissipation  of  the  black 
mist  ? 

Certainly  getting  to  his  bachelor  apartment 
down  in  the  Village  was  out  of  the  question. 
Taxicabs  couldn’t  be  running.  He  had  a 
hunch  no  other  form  of  transportation  would 
be  running  either.  Only  fools  like  himself 
would  even  be  trying  to  get  anywhere  in 
soup  like  this. 

But  he  decided  against  the  sidewalk.  There 
might  be  police  patrols  that  would  question 
him,  wondering  why  he  was  outside  the 
sanctuary  of  the  station. 

Now  with  only  his  shuffling  feet  to  guide 
him,  he  made  his  way  to  the  curb  and  out  in- 
to the  street.  If  there  was  any  traffic — but 
there  couldn’t  be. 

He  found  the  curb  on  the  far  side  by  fall- 
ing over  it,  shuffled  across  the  sidewalk  and 
again  was  able  to  touch  solidity  with  a guid- 
ing right  hand  as  he  groped  along  42nd 
Street.  Forty-second  Street,  only  a few 
blocks  from  Broadway  and  Times  Square, 
and  he  might  as  well  have  been  in  the  deep- 
est, darkest  forest  of  Africa.  There  wasn’t  a 
sound,  either. 

Except  the  soft  shuffle  of  his  own  foot- 
steps and  he  realized  that,  for  no  conscious 


UNIVERSE  29 

reason,  he  was  walking  on  tiptoe  to  disturb 
that  awful  quiet  as  little  as  possible.  He 
traversed  the  short  block  to  Madison,  crossed 
it,  and  began  to  grope  his  way  toward  Fifth 
Avenue.  Where  was  he  going? 

Well,  why  not  Times  Square?  Unless  he 
just  sat  down  in  the  open,  he  had  to  be  going 
somewhere  and  why  not  to  the  center  of 
things?  If  there  was  anything  going  on  in 
New  York  at  all  it  would  be  there.  And  if 
Times  Square  were  as  bad  as  this  he’d  see 
if  the  subways  were  open.  It  might  be  light 
down  in  the  subway  stations — as  in  Grand 
Central — even  if  the  trains  weren’t  running. 

Anywhere,  out  of  this  blackness. 

He’d  been  trying  every  door  he’d  passed. 
They  were  all  locked.  He  thought  of  the 
Borden  Publishing  Co.  office,  only  three 
blocks  south — and  he  had  the  key  to  it.  But 
no,  the  outer  door  of  the  building  would  be 
locked.  All  these  other  buildings  he’d  been 
passing  were  locked. 

He  crossed  Fifth  Avenue.  Across  the 
street  from  him  now  would  be  the  Public 
Library.  For  a moment  he  thought  of  going 
to  it,  and  spending  the  night  on  the  steps 
there.  He’d  try  Times  Square  and  the  sub- 
way first. 

He  tried  another  door — locked,  as  had 
been  all  tlie  others — but  in  the  brief  instant 
when  his  footsteps  paused  as  his  hand  tried 
the  knob,  a soft  sound  came  to  his  ears.  The 
sound  of  footsteps  approaching  him  from  the 
direction  of  Broadway.  Footsteps  that  were 
even  more  soft  and  cautious  than  his  own, 
stealthy  footsteps.  Something  inside  told  him 
that,  there  was  danger  in  them,  deadly  dan- 
ger. 


CHAPTER  V 
The  Nighters 


AS  HE  stood  still  the  footsteps  came 
closer.  Whoever,  whatever  it  was — 
there  wasn’t  any  way  of  avoiding  a meeting, 
unless  he  turned  and  worked  his  way  back 
the  way  he  had  come.  It  was,  it  seemed  to 
Keith  suddenly,  a one-dimensional  world. 
There  was  only  forward  and  backward  in  it 
as  long  as  they  each — he  and  the  unknown — • 
groped  their  way  along  the  building  fronts. 
Like  ants  crawling  along  a string  they  must 
meet  and  pass  unless  one  of  them  turned. 


STAETLING  STORIES 


30 

But  before  he  made  up  his  mind  to  turn 
it  was  already  too  late — a groping  hand  had 
touched  him  and  a whining  voice  was  saying, 
“Don’t  rob  me,  mister.  I ain’t  got  no 
money,’’  and  Keith  sighed  with  relief. 

“Okay,”  he  said.  “I’ll  stand  still.  You  go 
around  me.” 

“Sure.” 

Hands  touched  him  lightly,  and  a strongly 
alcoholic  breath  almost  made  him  gasp  as 
the  man  groped  past  him. 

There  was  a chuckle  in  the  blackness.  Just 
an  old  space  dog  on  a spree,”  the  voice  said. 
“And  rolled  already.  Look,  mister.  I’ll  give 
you  a tip.  The  Nighters  are  out.  A gang  of 
twenty  or  thirty  of  ’em,  over  Times  Square 
way.  You  better  not  keep  on  the  way  you’re 
goin’.” 

The  man  was  past  him  now.  His  hand  still 
touched  Keith’s  arm  to  maintain  contact. 

“They’re  the  ones  who  robbed  you?” 
Keith  asked. 

“Them?  Mister,  I’m  ain’t  I?  Would 
I be  if  the  Nighters  had  got  me  ? I ask  you.” 

“That’s  right,”  Keith  said.  “Maybe  I’d 
better  not  go  that  way  after  all.  Uh — are  the 
subways  open?” 

“The  subwaysf  Man,  you  really  want 
trouble,  don’t  you?” 

“Where  is  a safe  place  to  go?”  Keith 
asked. 

“Safe?  A long  time  since  I heard  that 
word.  What’s  it  mean?”  A drunken  laugh. 
“Mister,  I was  on  the  Mars-Jupe  run  in  the 
days  of  the  plat  rush,  when  they  said  the 
last  rites  over  us  before  they  closed  the  air- 
locks. I’d  as  soon  be  back  there  as  messing 
around  this  mist-out  and  playing  tag  with 
Nighters.” 

“How’d  you  know  I wasn’t  a Nighter?” 

“You  kidding?  How  could  one  guy  be  a 
Nighter,  when  they  go  in  armlock  gangs  and 
you  can  hear  ’em  tapping.  We’re  fools  to  be 
out  in  this,  mister.  You  and  me,  both  of  us. 
If  I wasn’t  drunk — say,  got  a match?” 

“Sure,”  Keith  said.  “Here’s  a box  of 
them.  Can  you — ?” 

“I  got  the  shakes,  mister.  Would  you  light 
one  for  me  ? And  then,  when  I get  a fag  go- 
ing, sure.  I’ll  tell  you  a safe  place  we  can 
hide  out  in  for  the  rest  of  the  night.” 

Keith  scraped  a match  along  the  side  of 
the  box  and  struck  it.  The  sudden  flame 
made  gray  dimness  out  of  the  black  mist  for 
a radius  of  about  a yard. 

It  revealed  a hideous,  leering,  scarred  face 
— and  above  it  a club  raised  to  strike.  The 


club  started  to  come  down  the  instant  the 
match  flared. 

There  wasn’t  time  to  duck  that  blow. 
Keith  stayed  alive  in  that  instant  by  reacting 
quickly,  instantaneously.  He  stepped  in  un- 
der the  blow,  thrusting  the  flaming  match 
into  that  ugly  face.  The  man’s  forearm,  not 
the  club,  struck  Keith’s  head  a glancing  blow. 
The  club  dropped  and  struck  the  sidewalk. 

Then  they  were  struggling,  wrestling  in 
the  dark,  with  strong  hands  trying  for  Keith’s 
throat,  foul  breath  in  his  face  and  fouler 
words  in  his  ears.  He  managed  to  avoid 
those  strangling  hands.  He  stepped  back  and 
struck.  His  fist  connected  solidly  in  the  dark. 

He  heard  his  assailant  fall — not  knocked 
out,  for  he  was  still  cursing.  Lender  cover 
of  that  sound.  Keith  took  three  light,  quick 
steps  backward,  away  from  the  wall,  out  into 
the  open  blackness,  and  stood  there  quietly, 
not  making  a sound. 

He  heard  his  attacker  scramble  to  his  feet, 
breathing  hard.  For  half  a minute,  perhaps, 
that  breathing  was  the  only  sound  in  the 
world.  Then  there  was  another  sound,  a 
new  one.  It  was  a distant,  soft  tapping,  like 
the  tapping  of  a blind  man’s  cane,  but  faster 
and  manifold — as  though  a company  of  blind 
men  were  coming  tapping  through  the  dark, 
fast.  The  sound  came  from  the  direction  he 
had  been  going — from  the  direction  of  Broad- 
way and  Times  Square. 

He  heard  a subdued  mutter,  “Nighters!” 
and  the  quick  shuffle  of  footsteps  as  his  for- 
mer assailant  started  off.  His  voice,  no 
longer  cursing  or  even  belligerent,  came 
back:  "Nmi,  pal.  Nighters!” 

And  the  shuffle  and  scuffle  of  his  footsteps 
died  away  as  the  tapping  got  louder  and 
nearer.  It  was  getting  nearer  incredibly  fast. 

IK^THAT  were  Nighters?  Human  be- 
W w ings?  He  tried  to  piece  together  the 
few  things  he’d  heard  about  them.  What  had 
the  man  with  the  scarred  face  said  about 
them  ? “When  they  go  in  armlock  gangs  and 
you  can  hear  ’em  tapping.” 

A gang  of  murderous  (“Them?  Mister, 
I’m  alive,  ain’t  I ? Would  ! be  if  the  Nighters 
had  got  me?  I ask  you?”)  desperadoes  or- 
ganized to  prey  in  the  superblackness  of  the 
mist-out? 

Armlock?  A row  of  them  with  locked 
arms,  perhaps,  from  one  side  of  the  street  to 
the  other,  so  their  prey  couldn’t  escape  ? 

The  tappings  was  close  now,  only  yards 
away.  Coming  faster  than  men  can  walk  in 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE  31 


the  dark,  almost  at  a run.  They  had  a sys- 
tem, somehow,  that  gave  them  speed. 

Keith  turned  and  ran,  diagonally  toward 
the  line  of  the  building  fronts  until  his  hand, 
outthrust,  made  scraping  contact,  and  then 
along  the  buildings.  Despite  the  risk  of  fall- 
ing over  some  obstacle  he  couldn’t  see,  -he 
ran. 

The  danger  behind  seemed  greater.  The 
fear  that  had  been  in  the  voice  of  the  man 
with  the  scarred  face  was  contagious.  That 
man — and  he  was  no  coward,  however  foul 
he  was — had  knoivn  what  Nighters  were, 
and  he’d  been  afraid,  plenty  afraid. 

Keith  ran  thirty  or  forty  paces,  then 
stopped  to  listen  again.  He’d  gained.  The 
tapping  was  farther  off,  maybe  twenty  yards 
away  instead  of  five  or  ten.  He  could  out- 
distance them  then,  as  long  as  he  dared  to 
run.  He  went  forward  again,  this  time  at  a 
rapid  walk  for  a counted  twenty  steps,  and 
stopped  again  to  listen.  Yes,  he’d  held  his 
distance  even  at  that  pace. 

He  started  again,  a little  faster.  He  wanted 
to  gain,  not  to  stay  even.  Another  twenty 
steps,  again  a pause  to  listen. 

Tapping — from  the  opposite  direction, 
ahead  of  him. 

Quite  a way  ahead — he  must  be  halfway 
down  the  block  now.  And  that  other  sound 
could  come  from  near  the  far  corner — but 
definitely  it  was  the  same  kind  of  sound  as 
behind  him,  only  more  distant. 

Two  lines  of  them,  coming  from  opposite 
directions,  and  he  was  in  between.  He 
stopped,  his  heart  beating  wildly  now.  He 
knew  now  what  fear  was.  He  could  taste 
it  in  his  throat. 

The  Nighters — whatever  Nighters  were — 
had  him  in  the  middle. 

He  stood  there,  hesitating,  until  the  tap- 
pings behind  him  were  so  close  he  had  to 
start  running  again — running  toward  the 
more  distant  danger  to  escape  the  closer  one. 
Again,  this  time,  he  ran,  blindly  except  for 
a hand  trailing  along  the  building  fronts. 

He  ran  about  fifty  paces  before  he  stopped 
again  to  listen.  There  was  the  tapping  from 
both  directions  now— and  about  equally  dis- 
tant either  way.  No  use  to  run  farther! 

He  crouched  back  into  a doorway,  caught. 
They’d  have  him  within  a minute  now.  Un- 
less— 

He  groped  for  the  handle  of  the  door  he 
leaned  against,  and  tried  to  turn  it.  It  was 
locked,  of  course.  His  frantic  hands  ran 
over  the  front  of  the  door,  felt  the  glass  panel. 


In  desperation  he  swfing  his  fist  at  the  bottom 
corner  of  the  glass  and  it  shattered. 

He  should  have  cut  his  fist  badly,  but  be 
didn’t.  As  though  luck  had  decided  to  give 
him  a break  at  last,  a small  area  of  glass  fell 
neatly  inward.  He  had  a glimpse  of  light  in- 
side as  a thick  curtain  drawn  down  over  the 
pane  swung  inward.  He  reached  through 
the  opening,  turned  the  knob  from  the  in- 
side, and  stumbled  through  the  door. 

The  light  inside  almost  blinded  him  as  he 
slammed  the  door  shut  behind  him. 

A voice  said,  “Stop  or  I’ll  shoot.” 

Keith  stopped,  partly  raising  his  hands. 
He  blinked  and  could  see  again.  He  was  in 
the  lobby  of  a small  hotel.  Across  the  desk, 
a dozen  feet  from  him,  leaned  a white-faced, 
very  frightened  looking  clerk,  holding  a re- 
peating shotgun  whose  muzzle  looked  as  big 
as  a cannon  and  was  aimed  straight  at  Keith’s 
chest. 

He  said,  “Don’t  come  a step  closer.  Get 
back  out.  I don’t  want  to  shoot  you,  but — ” 

Without  lowering  his  half-raised  arms, 
Keith  said,  “I  can’t.  Nighters.  They’re — ” 

The  clerk’s  face  got  whiter.  They  could 
both  hear  the  sounds  of  tapping. 

The  clerk’s  voice  was  just  above  a whis- 
per, and  it  trembled.  “Back  up  against  that 
door.  Hold  the  curtain  fast  against  the  break, 
so  no  light  shows.” 

EITH  took  a step  backward  and  leaned 
against  the  door. 

He  and  the  clerk  were  both  very  silent. 
Would  they  see — or,  groping,  feel — that  hole 
he  had  made  in  the  glass?  Was  a knife  or  a 
bullet  or  something  going  to  come  through 
that  hole  and  into  his  back.  His  skin  crawled. 

But  nothing  came  through  the  hole.  For 
a minute  there  was  tapping,  muffled  voices. 
Human  voices  ? Keith  thought  so.  Then  the 
sounds  outside  died  away. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  for  almost  three 
minutes.  Then  the  clerk  said,  “Now  get  out. 
They’ve  gone.” 

Keith  kept  his  voice  pitched  as  low  as  he 
could  and  still  make  it  audible  to  the  clerk. 
He  said,  “They’re  still  nearby;  they’ll  get 
me  if  I go  out  again.  I’m  not  a robber.  I’m 
not  armed.  And  I’ve  got  money.  I’d  like  to 
pay  for  that  window  I broke — and  I’d  like  to 
rent  a room  if  you’ve  got  one.  If  you  haven’t 
a room.  I’ll  even  pay  to  sit  in  your  lobby  all 
night.” 

The  clerk  studied  him  uncertainly,  with- 
out lowering  the  gun.  Then  he  asked,  “What 


32  STARTLING  STORIES 


were  you  doing — out  there?” 

“I  came  in  from  Greeneville — last  train 
into  Grand  Central.  I’d  had  word  my  broth- 
er was  seriously  sick  and  I took  a chance  on 
getting  home — a dozen  blocks.  Hadn’t  real- 
ized quite  how  bad  it  was  out  there.” 

The  clerk  studied  him  closely.  Finally  he 
said,  “Keep  your  hands  up.”  He  lowered 
the  shotgun  down  to  the  counter,  but  kept 
his  hand  on  it  and  his  finger  inside  the  trig- 
ger guard  while,  with  his  free  hand  he  took 
a pistol  out  of  a drawer  behind  the  desk. 
“Turn  around — your  back  toward  me.  I’ll  be 
sure  you’re  not  armed.” 

Keith  turned  and  stood  still  while  he  heard 
the  clerk  come  around  the  end  of  the  coun- 
ter. He  stood  even  stiller  while  the  business 
end  of  the  pistol  pressed  into  the  small  of  his 
back  and  the  clerk’s  hand  ran  over  his  pock- 
ets. 

“Okay,”  the  clerk  said.  “I  guess  you’re 
all  right ; I'll  take  a chance.  I ’would  hate  to 
send  a dog  out  into — that.” 

Keith  sighed  with  relief,  and  turned.  “How 
much  for  the  window,  and  a room?” 

“A  hundred  creds  will  cover  both.  That 
rack  of  magazines  and  pocket  books — give 
me  a hand  to  put  it  in  front  of  the  door.  It’s 
high  enough — it’ll  block  off  the  break  in  the 
glass.” 

He  took  one  end  of  the  rack  and  Keith  the 
other.  The  rack  blocked  off  the  door  per- 
fectly. Keith’s  eye  was  caught  by  the  titles 
of  some  of  those  pocket  books — one  in  par- 
ticular. He  noticed  the  price  too — cr. 
Apparently  the  rule  of  one  credit  to  ten  cents 
held  pretty  well. 

And  a hundred  credits — ten  dollars — for 
the  pane  of  glass  and  a room  for  the  night 
was  reasonable  enough.  Not  that  he  would 
have  quarreled  at  a thousand  credits,  rather 
than  go  out  again  into  the  horror  that  was 
Forty-second  Street. 

He  followed  the  clerk  back  to  the  desk  and 
signed  a registration  card.  He  took  a hun- 
dred-credit note  and  a fifty  from  his  wallet. 
He  said,  “I’m  going  to  pick  out  two  or  three 
of  those  pocket  books  to  read.  You  keep  the 
change.” 

“Sure,  thanks.  Here’s  your  key.  Three- 
o-seven — third  floor  front.  You’ll  have  to 
walk  up  and  find  it  yourself.  I’ve  got  to  stay 
here  on  guard.” 

Keith  nodded  and  pocketed  the  key.  He 
walked  quickly  back  to  the  book  rack  and 
picked  a book  called  Is  the  Mist-out  Worth 
It?  That  one,  for  sure. 


His  eye  ran  over  the  other  titles.  Some 
of  them  were  familiar,  others  were  not. 
H.  G.  Wells’  Outline  of  History — ^he  grabbed 
that  one  quickly.  He  could  get  a lot  he 
needed  to  know  out  of  that  book.  What  for 
third  choice?  There  was  lots  of  fiction  but 
he  didn’t  want  that.  He  wanted  redder,  more 
concentrated  meat.  Dopelle,  the  Man,  The 
Story  of  Dopelle,  Dopelle,  Hero  of  Spacewar. 

There  were  half  a dozen  books  on  Dopelle 
— and  where  had  he  heard  that  name  before  ? 
Oh,  sure — in  the  newspapers,  the  general  in 
charge  of  Terrestrial  space  fleets.  Well,  if 
there  were  that  many  books  about  him  out 
of  only  a few  dozen  titles,  then  maybe  it 
would  be  well  to  skim  through  one  of  them. 
He  picked  The  Story  of  Dopelle — it  didn’t 
even  surprise  him  to  notice  that  it  was  by 
Paul  Gallico. 

The  walk  up  to  the  third  floor  told  him 
how  tired  he  was.  His  wounded  shoulder 
was  beginning  to  ache.  So,  for  that  matter, 
did  the  knuckles  of  his  right  hand.  The  glass 
had  not  cut  them  by  a miracle  but  they  were 
bruised  and  sore. 

He  found  the  room  by  the  dim  light  in 
the  hall,  went  in  and  turned  on  the  light.  It 
was  a pleasant,  comfortable  room,  with  a nice 
soft  bed  that  he  looked  at  longingly.  But  he 
didn’t  dare  get  into  it  until  he’d  found  out  a 
few  things  he  might  learn  from  the  books 
he’d  bought  in  the  lobby. 

He  undressed  enough  to  be  comfortable 
and  sat  down  to  read.  First,  Is  the  Mist-out 
Worth  It?  That  one  he  was  going  to  skim 
fast  but  he  wanted  to  find  out  what  the  mist- 
out  was.  ’'stickily  its  history  was  fairly  well 
summarized  in  the  opening  chapter. 

The  mist-out,  he  learned,  had  been  per- 
fected by  a German  professor  in  1934, 
shortly  after  the  destruction — by  Arcturian 
action — of  Chicago  and  Rome.  The  destruc- 
tion of  Chicago — in  which  eight  million 
people  had  died — had  happened  early  in  1933. 

Immediately,  every  large  city  in  the  world 
had  enforced  a strict  blackout  but,  later  in 
that  same  year,  another  Arcturian  vessel 
slipped  the  cordon  and  Rome — perfectly 
blacked-out — had  been  destroyed.  Fortu- 
nately, however,  that  particular  Arcturian 
ship  had  been  captured  with  a few  members 
of  the  crew  still  alive. 

Through  the  use  of  something  or  someone 
called  Mekky — the  author  assumed  that  all 
of  his  readers  knew  all  about  iMekky,  and 
failed  to  explain — it  had  been  learned  from 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


the  surviving  Arcturians  that  they  had  detec- 
tors which  picked  up  hitherto  unknown  rays 
— other  than  light  rays — emitted  by  electrical 
incandescence. 

They  could  thus  locate  a city  through  the 
lights  burning  within  closed  buildings,  for 
the  buildings  were  as  transparent  to  the  so- 
called  ej>silon  rays  as  they  were  to  radio 
waves. 

For  a while  it  seemed  that  the  only  safety 
for  Earth’s  cities  lay  in  going  back  to  candles 
or  gaslight  for  illumination  at  night.  (Elec- 
tric lights  could  be  used  for  interior  daylight 
lighting,  for  sunlight  damped  out  the  epsilon 
rays  before  they  left  the  atmosphere.) 

But  Dopelle  had  retired  to  his  laboratory 
and  worked  on  the  problem.  From  his  find- 
ings of  the  nature  of  epsilon  rays  a German 
professor  had  worked  out  the  epsilon  gas 
which  constituted  the  mist-outs  which  were 
now  required  by  the  Greater  Earth  Council 
for  all  cities  larger  than  a hundred  thousand 
population. 

It  was  a substance  of  strange  properties 
indeed.  Odorless,  harmless  to  life,  it  was 
impervious  to  light  and  to  epsilon  rays. 
Inexpensively  made  from  coal  tar,  one  plant 
could  turn  out  enough  in  a few  hours  each 
evening  to  mix  with  the  air  and  blanket  a city 
completely.  Sunlight  disintegrated  it  at  dawn 
in  the  space  of  a few  minutes. 

Other  Arc  ships  had  been  through  the 
cordon  since  then  but  no  major  city  of  Earth 
had  been  damaged.  Undoubtedly  the  mist-out 
had  saved  many  millions  of  lives.  There  was 
no  sure  way  of  knowing  how  many  Earth 
cities  would  have  been  destroyed  without  it. 

But  it  had  taken  lives  too.  Law  enforce- 
ment agencies  in  many  major  cities  had 
found  themselves  almost  completely  helpless 
to  combat  growing  crime  waves.  Under 
cover  of  the  mist-out,  the  streets  of  big  cities 
had  become  no-man’s-lands.  In  New  York, 
for  example,  five  thousand  policemen  had 
died. 

The  situation  was  aggravated  by  the 
strong  tendency  of  combat  veterans  who  had 
fought  in  space  to  turn  to  crime,  a psychosis 
to  which  possibly  a third  of  them  succumbed. 
Finally,  in  many  of  the  larger  cities,  attempts 
to  maintain  order  at  night  had  been 
abandoned. 

Respectable  citizens  were  simply  warned 
to  keep  off  the  streets  at  night.  Even  the 
police  stayed  under  cover  from  dusk  to  dawn 
and  vicious  gangs  held  sway.  Some  gangs, 
such  as  the  Nighters  of  New  York,  the 


33 

Bloodies  of  London  and  the  Lennies  (Keith 
wondered  if  the  name  came  from  Lenin’s) 
in  Moscow,  had  adopted  specialized  tech- 
niques and  seemed  fairly  well  organized. 

Hundreds  died  nightly.  The  situation 
would  have  been  worse  except  for  the  fact 
that  the  hoodlums  killed  and  robbed  one 
another  more  often  than  honest  citizens, 
who  stayed  home. 

The  mist-out  was,  therefore,  a big  price 
to  pay  for  immunity  to  space  attack.  Possibly 
a million  people  had  died  in  the  mist-out — 
but  probably  twenty  to  fifty  million  lives  had 
been  saved.  The  author  pointed  out  the  de- 
struction by  Arcturian  ships  of  fifteen  towns 
and  small  cities — too  small  to  have  mist-outs, 
too  small  to  be  not  expendable — and 
reasoned,  that  except  for  the  mist-outs,  those 
fifteen  flaming  hells  would  have  been  cities 
of  from  a million,  to  ten  million  people. 

Keith  shivered  a little  as  he  put  down  Is 
the  Mist-out  Worth  It?  If  he’d  bought  that 
book  in  Greeneville  he’d  have  known  better 
than  to  have  left  Grand  Central  Station. 
He’d  have  taken  a cot  there  or  slept  on  the 
floor.  Night  life  on  Broadway  wasn’t  what 
it  had  been  where  he’d  come  from. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  look- 
ing— well,  not  out,  exactly,  but  at  the  blank 
blackness  that  was  the  pane.  The  curtain 
wasn’t  pulled  down,  but  that  didn’t  matter 
on  any  but  a first  floor  window. 

Six  feet  away,  outside,  one  wouldn’t  be 
able  to  see  the  lighted  window  at  all.  It  was 
an  uncanny  kind  of  blackness.  And  what 
was  going  on  down  below  there  on  Forty- 
second  Street,  only  a block  and  a half  from 
the  center  of  the  universe? 

Criminals  taking  over  Forty-second 
Street!  Spaceship  runs  to  Mars,  war  with 
Arcturus.  What  mad  universe  was  he  in  ? 


CHAPTER  VI 
The  Sewing  Machines  Rampant 


WELL,  wherever,  whatever  it  was,  he 
was  here  and  he  was  stuck  with  it 
and  he  was  going  to  be  in  continuous  danger 
until  he  learned  the  ropes  well  enough  so 
that  he  wouldn’t  risk  making  a break  every 
time  he  did  or  said  anything. 

Breaks  weren’t  safe  in  a spot  where  you 
could  get  yourself  shot  on  sight  as  a spy 


34  STARTLING  STORIES 


on  no  provocation  at  all,  where  you  could 
get  yourself  killed  by  being  foolish  enough 
to  try  to  walk  from  Grand  Central  Station 
to  Times  Square  after  dark. 

Resolutely,  he  picked  up  the  pocket  edition 
of  H.  G.  Wells’  Outline  of  History.  He  was 
too  tired  to  sit  up  any  longer.  He’d  lie  on  the 
bed  to  read  and,  if  he  went  to  sleep — well, 
he’d  finish  reading  in  the  morning  and  find 
out  as  much  about  things  as  he  could  before 
going  out  to  face  them. 

He  picked  up  the  Wells  book  and  started 
to  read,  skimming  lightly  through  the  early 
chapters.  There  was  no  difference  in  them. 
They  even  had  the  same  pictures.  He’d  hap- 
pened to  reread  the  book  recently  and  was 
familiar  with  it.  The  Egyptians,  the  Greeks, 
the  Roman  Empire,  Charlemagne,  Middle 
Ages,  Renaissance,  Columbus  and  America, 
■the  American  Revolution,  Civil  War,  the 
Industrial  Revolution  . . . 

Into  Space. 

That  was  the  chapter  heading,  nine-tenths 
of  the  way  through.  He  quit  skimming  and 
leafing  over  pages  and  started  to  read. 

Nineteen  hundred  and  three.  An  Ameri- 
can scientist  at  Harvard  had  discovered  the 
spacewarp  drive.  Accidentally!  Working  on, 
of  all  things,  his  wife’s  sewing  machine, 
which  had  been  broken  and  discarded.  He 
was  trying  to  change  it  around  so  the  treadle 
would  run  a tiny  home-made  generator  to 
give  him  a high-frequency  low-voltage  cur- 
rent that  he  wanted  to  use  in  some  class  ex- 
periments in  physics. 

He’d  finished  his  connections — fortunately 
he  remembered  afterwards  just  what  they’d 
been  and  where  he’d  made  his  mistake — and 
he’d  worked  the  treadle  a few  times  when  his 
foot  stamped  unexpectedly  on  the  floor  and 
he  nearly  fell  forward  out  of  his  chair.  The 
sewing  machine,  treadle  and  generator  and 
all,  just  wasn’t  there  any  more. 

The  professor.  Wells  humorously  pointed 
out,  had  been  sober  at  the  time  but  he  quick- 
1}'  remedied  that.  After  he  sobered  up  he 
borrowed  his  wife’s  new  sewing  machine, 
and  lost  that.  He  didn’t  know  where  they 
were  going. 

He  rigged  up  a third  one  and  this  time 
ae  got  witnesses,  including  the  president  and 
the  dean  of  the  university.  He  didn’t  tell 
them  -u'hat  they  were  going  to  witness.  He 
just  told  them  to  watch  the  sewing  machine. 
They  did  and  then  the  sewing  machine  wasn’t 
there  to  watch. 

They  didn’t  know  what  they  had,  but  they 


knew  thay  had  something  new.  They  relieved 
Professor  Yarley  (that  was  his  name)  of 
his  teaching  duties  and  gave  him  a grant  to 
finance  his  experiments.  He  lost  a few  more 
sewing  machines  and  then  quit  using  sewing 
machines  and  began  to  get  the  thing  down  to 
the  essential  minima. 

He  found  he  could  use  a clockwork  motor 
— connected  that  particular  way — to  the  gen- 
erator. The  treadle  wasn’t  necessary.  He 
didn’t  have  to  use  a bobbin  but  the  shuttle 
was  necessary  and  had  to  be  of  ferrous  metal. 
And  an  electric  motor  running  the  generator 
canceled  something  out ; it  wouldn’t  work. 

Foot-power  through  a treadle,  hand  power, 
clockwork  or  his  son’s  toy  steam  engine.  He 
got  it  down  to  a comparatively  simple  layout 
of  stuff  mounted  on  a box — boxes  were 
cheaper  than  sewing  machines — he’d  wind  a 
spring,  release  the  lever  and — well — it  went 
somewhere. 

Then  one  day  there  was  a news  story  that 
. something  at  first  thought  to  be  a meteor  had 
struck  the  side  of  a tall  building  in  Chicago. 
Upon  subsequent  examination  it  proved  to 
be  what  was  I'ft  of  a wooden  box  and  some 
oddly  assorted  clockwork  and  electrical  ap- 
paratus. 

Yarley  took  the  next  train  to  Chicago  and 
identified  his  handiwork.  He  knew  then 
that  the  thing  moved  through  space  and  he 
had  something  to  work  on.  Nobody  had 
timed  the  striking  of  the  object  against  the 
Chicago  building  to  an  exact  second  but,  as 
nearly  as  he  could  get  it  timed,  Yarley  de- 
cided that  the  object  had  traveled  from 
Harvard  to  Chicago  in  just  about  nothing 
flat. 

The  university  gave  him  some  assistants 
then  and  he  began  experimenting  in  earnest, 
sending  out  the  things  in  considerable  num- 
bers, with  identifying  serial  numbers  on 
them  and  with  an  accurate  record  kept  of 
variations  in  number  of  wflndings,  the  exact 
amount  of  power  applied,  the  direction  in 
wdiich  it  had  been  facing  and  all  such  data. 
Also,  he  publicized  what  he  was  doing  and 
got  people  watching  for  them  all  over  the 
w'orld. 

Two  were  reported.  By  comparison  with 
his  records  he  learned  some  important 
things.  First,  that  the  machine  traveled  in 
the  exact  direction  of  the  axle  of  the  genera- 
tor part — second,  that  there  was  a relation- 
ship between  the  number  of  windings  and  the 
distance  it  traveled. 

Now  he  could  really  go  to  work.  By  1904 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


he  had  determined  that  the  distance  the  ma- 
chine traveled  was  proportionate  to  the 
cube  of  the  number  of  turns  or  fractional 
turns  on  the  generator  and  that  the  duration 
of  the  trip  was  actually  and  exactly  nothing 
flat.  By  cutting  the  generators  down  to  toy 
size  he  could  send  a machine  for  a com- 
paratively short  measured  distance — a few 
miles — and  make  it  land  in  a particular  field 
outside  of  town. 

IT  MIGHT  have  revolutionized  trans- 
portation in  general,  except  that  the 
machines  were  always  damaged  seriously, 
internally  and  externally,  when  they  landed. 
Generally  there  was  barely  enough  of  them 
left  for  identification,  not  always  that  much. 
And  it  wasn’t  going  to  make  much  of  a 
weapon ; explosives  sent  never  arrived.  They 
must  have  exploded  enroute,  somewhere  in 
the  warp. 

In  three  years  of  experimentation,  they  got 
it  worked  out  to  a nice  formula  and  even 
began  to  understand  the  principles  back 
of  it  as  well  as  to  be  able  to  predict  the  re- 
sults. They  determined  that  the  reason  the 
things  were  destroyed  was  their  sudden 
materialization,  at  the  end  of  the  journey,  in 
air. 

Air  is  pretty  solid  stuff.  You  can’t  displace 
a quantity  of  it  in  nothing  flat  without 
damaging  whatever  does  the  displacing — 
not  only  damaging  it  as  an  object,  but 
damaging  its  very  molecular  structure. 

Obviously,  the  only  practical  place  to 
which  an  object  could  be  sent  was  into  space, 
open  space.  And,  since  the  distance  in- 
creased as  the  cube  of  the  windings,  it 
wouldn’t  take  a very  large  machine  to  reach 
the  moon,  or  even  the  planets. 

Even  interstellar  travel  would  not  take 
a really  monstrous  one,  especially  as  the 
thing  could  be  done  in  several  hops,  each 
taking  no  longer  in  time  than  it  took  the  pilot 
to  press  a button. 

Furthermore,  since  time  was  a zero  factor, 
no  trajectories  need  be  calculated.  Simply 
aim  directly  at  a visible  planet  or  the  moon, 
adjust  the  distance  factor,  and  there  you 
were,  materializing  in  space  a safe  distance 
from  the  planet  and  ready  to  descend  and 
land. 

How  to  land  took  them  a few  years  to 
work  out — the  science  of  aerodynamics 
hadn’t  been  solved  yet  and,  anyway,  there 
wasn’t  supposed  to  be  any  air  on  the  Moon, 
the  first  and  most  obvious  objective.  But  in 


35 

1910  the  first  man  landed  on  the  Moon  and 
returned  safely.  The  habitable  planets  were 
all  reached  within  the  next  year. 

The  next  chapter  was  The  Interplanetary 
War  but  Keith  Winton  couldn’t  read  it.  It 
was  three-thirty  in  the  morning.  He’d  had 
a long  day  and  things  had  happened  to  him. 
He  simply  couldn’t  hold  his  eyes  open.  He 
reached  out  and  turned  out  the  light  and 
was  asleep  almost  before  his  head  dropped 
back  on  the  pillow. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  he  awakened. 
He  lay  there  for  a moment  before  opening 
his  eyes,  thinking  of  the  crazy  dream  he’d 
had  about  a world  with  space-travel  and 
Bems  and  war  with  Arcturus.  And  mist-outs 
and — 

He  rolled  over  a little  and  his  shoulder 
hurt  so  that  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  an 
unfamiliar  ceiling  over  his  head.  It  was  a 
shock,  and  it  made  him  fully  awake  and  he 
sat  up  in  bed  quickly.  He  looked  at  his  wrist 
watch.  Eleven  forty-five ! Rats,  he  was 
late  for  the  office.  Or  was  he? 

He  was  horribly  mixed  up,  unoriented. 
He  got  out  of  bed,  and  walked  over  to  the 
window.  Yes,  he  was  cwi  Forty-second 
Street,  on  the  third  floor,  and  there,  across 
the  street,  was  the  Public  Library.  The 
street  was  filled  with  normal  traffic  and  the 
sidewalks  were  crowded  as  ever,  with 
ordinary-looking  people  wearing  ordinary 
clothes.  It  was  the  New  York  he  knew. 

He  stood  there,  puzzling,  trying  to  fit  his 
being  here  in  New  York  into  the  scheme  of 
things.  The  last  thing  he  remembered  that 
really  made  sense  was  his  sitting  in  a chair 
in  Mr.  Borden’s  garden.  After  that — 

Could  he  have  come  back  to  New  York 
other  than  in  the  way  he  seemed  to  remember 
it — and  have  supplied,  somehow,  a night- 
mare for  his  memories  of  the  trip?  If  so  he 
was  overdue  to  see  a psychiatrist.  Was  he 
crazy?  He  must  be.  Yet  had  hap- 

pened to  him  yesterday.  He  put  his  hand  to 
his  shoulder  gently  and  it  was  plenty  sore 
under  the  bandage. 

Well,  he’d  get  out  of  here,  go  home  and — 
well,  he  couldn’t  plan  any  further  than  that 
just  yet.  He’d  go  home  first. 

He  turned  around  and  walked  to  the  chair 
where  he  had  put  his  shirt  and  trousers. 
Something  on  the  floor  beside  the  bed  caught 
his  qye.  It  was  a copy  of  H.  G.  Wells’ 
Outline  of  History. 

His  hands  trembled  a little  as  he  picked 
it  up  and  opened  it  to  the  contents  page. 


36  STARTLING  STORIES 


That  would  be  the  quickest.  The  third  last 
chapter  was  Into  Space,  the  second  last  The 
Interplanetary  War  and  the  last  chapter 
Struggle  Against  Arcturus. 

The  book  dropped  out  of  his  hand.  He 
reached  to  pick  it  up  and  saw  another  one 
slid  slightly  under  the  bed.  It  was  called, 
Is  the  Mist-out  Worth  It? 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  and  didn’t  do 
anything  for  a few  minutes  except  to  think, 
to  adjust  his  mind  to  the  fact  that  whatever 
had  happened  had  really  happened.  The 
mist-out  last  night  with  its  jungle  savagery, 
the — 

He  reached  back  for  his  trouser  pocket  and 
got  his  wallet.  There  were  credit  bills  in  it 
and  not  dollars.  A little  over  a thousand 
credits,  which  would  be  a little  over  a hun- 
dred dollars. 

LOWLY  he  dressed  and  walked  back 
over  to  the  window.  It  was  still  Forty- 
second  Street  and  still  ordinary  but  it  didn’t 
fool  him  now.  He  remembered  what  it  had 
been  like  at  one  o’clock  last  night  and  shud- 
dered a little. 

He  caught  a flash  of  purple  in  the  crowd 
below  and  across  the  street  and  looked  closer. 
It  was  a purple  Bern,  all  right,  walking  into 
the  library — and  nobody  was  paying  any 
more  attention  to  it  than  they  would  have 
paid  to  a bank  clerk  or  an  insurance  sales- 
man. 

He  sighed  deeply,  put  the  H.  G.  Wells 
pocket  book  and  the  Paul  Gallico  one  on 
Dopelle  into  his  coat  pockets  and  decided  to 
leave  the  one  about  the  mist-out.  He  knew 
all  he  really  had  to  know  about  the  mist-out 
— stay  indoors  out  of  it. 

He  went  downstairs  and  out  through  the 
lobby.  A different  clerk  was  on  duty  at  the 
desk  and  didn’  even  glance  at  him. 

Now  that  he  was  fully  awake  he  was 
hungry.  Eating  was  the  first  order  of  busi- 
ness. He  hadn’t  eaten  since  noon  yesterday. 

A quiet  little  restaurant  a few  doors  west 
looked  inviting.  Keith  went  in  and  sat  at 
a little  table  along  one  side.  He  studied  the 
menu.  There  was  a choice  of  a dozen  entrees, 
and  nine  of  them  were  familiar.  The  other 
three  were  the  most  expensive  items — Mar- 
tian zot  a la  Marseille,  roast  brail  with  kapi 
sauce  and  gallina  de  luna. 

That  last,  if  Keith  remembered  his 
Spanish,  would  be  moon  chicken.  Some 
day.  he  decided,  he  was  going  to  eat  moon 
chicken,  Martian  zot  and  roast  brail  but  right 


now  he  was  too  hungry  to  experiment.  He 
ordered  goulash. 

Goulash  didn’t  require  concentration  and, 
while  he  ate,  he  skimmed  through  the  final 
two  chapters  of  Wells.  Wells  was  bitter 
about  the  so-called  interplanetary  war.  He 
saw  it  purely  as  a war  of  conquest  with  Earth 
the  aggressor. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  Moon  and  of  Venus 
had  proved  friendly  and  exploitable — and 
had  been  exploited.  The  intelligence  of  the 
lunans  (yes,  they  were  the  purple  Bems) 
was  about  that  of  an  African  savage  of  Earth 
but  they  were  much  more  docile.  They  made 
excellent  laborers  and  still  better  mechanics, 
once  they  had  been  introduced  to  the 
mysteries  of  machinery. 

The  Venusians,  although  almost  as  intel- 
ligent as  Earthmen,  were  creatures  of  a quite 
different  order.  Interested  solely  in  philos- 
ophy, the  arts  and  abstract  mathematics, 
.they  had  welcomed  *the  Earthmen,  avid  for 
exchange  of  cultures  and  ideas.  They  had 
no  practical  civilization,  no  cities  (or  even 
houses),  no  possessions,  machines  or 
weapons. 

Few  in  number,  they  were  nomads  who — 
aside  from  the  life  of  the  mind — lived  as 
primitively  as  animals.  They  offered  no 
barrier  and  every  assistance — aside  from 
work — to  man’s  colonization  and  exploitation 
of  Venus.  Earth  had  established  four 
colonies  there,  aggregating  a little  short  of  a 
million  people. 

But  Mars  had  been  different. 

The  Martians  had  the  silly  idea  that  they 
didn’t  want  to  be  colonized.  They  had,  it 
turned  out,  a civilization  at  least  equal  to 
ours,  except  that  they  had  not  yet  developed 
space  travel  (which,  after  all,  had  been  an 
accidental  discovery  on  Earth — if  it  hadn’t 
been  for  the  Professor’s  sewing  machine  the 
space  warp  principle  might  not  have  been 
discovered,  mathematically,  for  a millenium). 

The  Martians  had  greeted  the  first  arrivals 
from  Earth  gravely  and  courteously  (the 
Martians  did  everything  gravely ; they  had 
no  sense  of  humor)  and  suggested  they  re- 
turn home  and*stay  there.  They’d  shot  the 
second  arrivals  and  the  third. 

And,  although  they’d  captured  the  space 
ships  in  which  these  parties  had  arrived, 
they’d  not  bothered  to  use  or  copy  the 
machines.  They  had  no  desire  to  leave  Mars, 
ever.  In  fact.  Wells  pointed  out,  no  Martian 
had  ever  left  Mars  alive  even  during  the 
interplanetary  war. 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


A few,  captured  alive  and  put  on  Earth- 
bound  ships  for  demonstration  and  study 
here,  had  willed  themselves  to  death  as  soon 
as  the  ships  had  left  the  thin  atmosphere  of 
Mars.  The  same  was  true  of  Martian  plants 
and  animals.  They  could  not  or  would  not 
live  anywhere  else.  No  single  specimen  of 
Martian  flora  or  fauna  graced  botanical 
gardens  or  zoos  of  Earth. 

The  so-called  interplanetary  wars,  there- 
fore, were  fought  entirely  on  the  surface  of 
Mars,  and  had  been  a bitter  struggle  in  which 
the  Martian  population  had  been  several 
times  decimated.  They  had,  however, 
capitulated  short  of  annihilation  and  per- 
mitted colonization  of  Mars  by  Elarthmen. 

Only  Earth  and  its  moon,  Venus  and  Mars 
had  turned  out  to  be  inhabited  by  intelligent 
beings  in  the  Solar  System.  Saturn  sup- 
ported plant  life  of  a strange  sort  and  a few 
of  the  moons  of  Jupiter  bore  plant  life  and 
wild  animals. 

Man  met  his  match — an  aggressive, 
colonizing  race  of  intelligent  beings — only 
when  he  went  beyond  the  Solar  System.  The 
Arcturians  had  had  the  space  drive  for  cen- 
turies. It  was  only  by  chance — for  the  uni- 
verse is  wide  indeed — that  they  had  not  yet 
visited  the  Sun’s  planets.  Having  learned  of 
us  through  an  encounter  near  Proxima  Cen- 
tauri,  they  set  about  to  remedy  that  omission. 

The  current  war  against  Arcturus  was, 
on  Earth’s  part,  a defensive  war — although 
it  involved  such  offensive  tactics  as  we  could 
muster.  And  thus  far  it  had  been  a stale- 
mate. Defensive  tactics  on  both  sides  being 
more  than  adequate  against  known  offenses. 
By  fortunate  early  capture  of  a few  Arc 
ships  Earth  had  quickly  overcome  the  tech- 
nical handicap  of  a few  centuries  under  which 
it  had  started  the  war. 

Currently,  thanks  to  the  leadership  of 
Dopelie,  Earth  had,  in  some  ways,  a slight 
advantage — although  it  was  still  a war  of 
attrition. 

Dopelie ! That  name  again.  Keith  put 
down  the  H.  G.  Wells  book,  and  started  to 
take  The  Story  of  Dopelie  out  of  his  pocket 
when  he  realized  that  he  had  long  since 
finished  eating  and  w'as  attracting  curious 
glances  just  sitting  there. 

He  paid  for  his  meal  and  went  out.  The 
steps  of  the  library  across  the  street  looked 
inviting.  He  could  sit  there  and  read  some 
more.  But  there  was  his  job  to  be  considered. 

Did  he  work  for  the  Borden  Publishing 
Co. — here  and  now — or  didn’t  he  ? If  he  did. 


37 

having  missed  a Monday  morning  might  not 
be  unforgivable.  Missing  a whole  day  might 
be.  And  it  was  well  after  one  o’clock  already. 

He  walked  east  and  then  south,  to  the 
office  building  in  which — on  the  tenth  floor 
— Borden  Publications  was  located. 

He  took  the  elevator  up. 


CHAPTER  VII 
Mekky 


That  beautiful  outer  door  was  very 
familiar,  one  of  those  modem  ones  that 
look  like  nothing  more  than  a sheet  of  glass 
with  a futuristic  chrome  handle  on  it ; you 
couldn’t  even  see  the  hinges.  The  lettering 
Borden  Publications,  Inc.  was  just  below 
eye  height,  small  and  chaste,  in  chrome 
letters  suspended  right  inside  the  thick  glass. 

Keith  took  the  handle  very  carefully  so 
he  wouldn’t  fingerprint  that  beautiful  sheet 
of  nothingness,  opened  the  door  and  went 
in. 

There  were  the  same  mahogany  railing,  the 
same  pictures — hunting  prints — on  the  walls 
and  the  same  plump  little  Marion  Blake  with 
the  same  pouting  red  lips  and  upsw'ept 
brunette  hairdo,  sitting  at  the  same  stenog- 
rapher-receptionist desk  back  of  the  railing. 

It  gave  him  a funny  little  thrill  to  see  her 
there — not  because  Marion  herself  could  give 
him  any  thrill  but  because  she  was  familiar. 
She  was  someone  he  knew  and  she  was  the 
first  person  he’d  seen  since — gosh,  w^as  it 
only  since  seven  o’clock  yesterday  evening? 
It  seemed  like  ages ! 

He’d  seen  familiar  things  and  familiar 
places  but  not  a familiar  face.  True,  the 
address  in  the  copy  of  Surprising  Stories 
(at  2 cr.)  had  told  him  that  Borden  Publi- 
cations was  still  here,  but  it  wouldn’t  really 
have  surprised  him  to  find  a purple  Bern  at 
Marion’s  reception  desk. 

For  just  a second,  the  familiar  sight  of 
her  there,  and  the  office  being  so  completely 
usual,  so  completely  as  he  remembered  it, 
made  him  doubt  his  memory  of  the  past 
eighteen  hours. 

It  couldn’t  be,  it  simple  couldn’t — 

Then  Marion  had  turned  and  was  looking 
up  at  him  and  there  wasn’t  a trace  of  recog- 
nition in  her  face. 

“Yes.P’  she  asked,  a bit  impatiently. 


38  STARTLING  STORIES 


Keith  cleared  his  throat.  Was  slw  kid- 
ding? Didn’t  she  know  him  or  was  she  just 
acting  funny? 

He  cleared  his  throat  again.  “Is  Mr. 
Keith  Winton  in?  I’d  like  to  speak  to  him, 
please.”  That  could  pass  as  a gag  to  counter 
hers ; if  she  grinned  now,  he  could  grin  back. 

She  said,  “Mr.  Winton  has  left  for  the 
day,  sir.” 

“Uh— Mr.  Borden.  He  in?” 

“No,  sir.” 

“Is  Be — Miss  Hadley  in?” 

“No,  sir.  Nearly  everybody  left  at  one. 
That’s  the  regular  closing  this  month.” 

“The  regu — oh,”  he  stopped  himself  in 
time  before  he  could  pull  a boner  by  being 
incredulous  about  something  he  undoubtedly 
should  know.  “I  forgot,”  he  finished  lamely. 
Why,  he  wondered,  would  one  o’clock  in  the 
afternoon  be  the  regular  closing  (she  must 
mean  the  regular  closing  time)  and  why  this 
month  in  particular? 

“I’ll  be  in  tomorrow  then,”  he  said.  “Uh 
— what  would  be  the  best  time  to  catch  Mr. 
Winton?” 

“About  seven.” 

"Se — " He  caught  himself  starting  to 
repjeat  incredulously  again.  Did  she  mean 
seven  in  the  morning  or  in  the  evening?  No, 
it  couldn’t  be  seven  in  the  evening.  It’d  be 
almost  time  for  the  mist-out  then. 

Suddenly  he  guessed  the  answer  and  won- 
dered why  he  hadn’t  thought  of  it  sooner. 
The  mist-out,  of  course — in  a New  York  in 
which  the  streets  were  sudden  death  after 
dark,  a New  York  without  night  life  at  all, 
the  hours  of  work  would  have  to  be  different 
in  order  to  give  employes  any  personal  lives 
of  their  own  at  all. 

It  would  change  things  completely  when 
you  had  to  be  home  before  dark — probably 
well  before,  in  order  to  assure  safety.  The 
working  day  would  be  from  six  or  seven  in 
the  morning — an  hour  or  so  after  early  sun- 
rise dissolved  the  mist — until  one  o’clock  in 
the  afternoon.  And  that  would  give  people 
afternoons  which  would  be  the  equivalent  of 
evenings. 

Of  course — it  would  have  to  be  that  way. 
He  wondered  why  he  hadn’t  thought  of  it 
himself.  Then  Broadway  wasn’t  dead,  and 
there  would  still  be  shows  and  night  clubs 
and  dance  halls  and  taverns — but  their  time 
to  howl  would  be  afternoons. 

And  everybody  would  be  safely  home  in 
bed  by,  say,  seven  or  eight  and  sleep  until 
about  four  o’clock  so  they’d  be  ^ and  dressed 


by  dawn — and,  of  course,  that’s  what 
meant  by  <xie  o’clock  being  the  closing  time 
this  month. 

It  would  have  to  vary  somewhat  according 
to  the  seasons,  as  the  days  shortened  and 
lengthened.  And  probably  regulated  by  local 
law,  because  Marion  had  expected  him  to 
know  it,  had  looked  surprised  that  he  hadn’t. 

Marion,  he  noticed,  was  putting  things 
into  the  drawer  of  her  desk,  gertting  ready 
to  leave.  She  looked  up  again  as  though 
wondering  why  he  was  still  there. 

He  said,  “Isn’t  your  name  Blake — uh — 
Marion  Blake?” 

Her  eyes  widened  a little.  “Why,  yes, 
but—” 

“I  thought  I was  remembering  you.” 
Keith  was  thinking  fast,  things  he’d  heard 
Marion  say,  girl  friends  he’d  heard  her 
mention,  where  she  lived,  what  she  did. 

He  said,  “A  girl  named  Estelle — I forget 
her  last  name — introduced  us  at  a dance  in — 
wasn’t  it  Queens?”  He  laughed  a little. 
“Isn’t  it  funny  I can’t  remember  Estelle’s  last 
name  but  I remember  both  yowr  names?” 

SHE  dimpled  at  him  for  that  compliment. 

“Well,  I live  in  Queens,  and  I guess 
you  mean  Estelle  Rambow,  but  I don’t  re- 
mem— ” 

“I  wouldn’t  have  expected  you  to  remem- 
ber my  name,”  Keith  assured  her.  “It’s — 
Karl  Winston.  And  we  danced  just  once 
that  night.  I remember,  though,  that  you 
told  me  you  worked  for  a magazine  publisher 
but  I didn’t  know  that  it  was  liere.  And  you 
told  me  you  wrote — poetry,  wasn’t  it?” 

“I  wouldn’t  really  call  it  p»oetry,  Mr. 
Winston.  Just  verse,  really.” 

“Call  me  Karl,”  Keith  said,  “since  we’re 
old  friends,  even  if  you  don’t  remember 
it.  You’re  leaving  now?” 

“Why,  yes.  I just  had  two  letters  to  finish 
after  one  o’clock  and  Mr.  Borden  said  if  I’d 
finish  them  I could  come  in  half  an  hour  late 
tomorrow,  and — ” 

“Good,”  he  said.  “I  mean.  I’m  glad  you 
were  late.  Will  you  have  a drink  with  me?’* 
She  hesitated.  “Well — just  a quick  one, 
maybe.  I’ve  got  to  be  home  by  two-thirty. 
I’ve  got  a date  then.” 

“Fine,”  Keith  said.  And  he  meant  it.  Over 
one  drink  he  could  find  out  a few  things  he 
wanted  to  know  and  he  didn’t  want  to  be 
stuck  with  Marion  for  the  whole  afternoon. 

They  took  the  elevator  down  and  he  let 
Marion  choose  the  place,  a little  bar  around 


WBLArWAD 

the  corner  on  Madison. 

Over  a pair  of  cocktails  he  said,  “I  think 
I mentioned  to  you  that  night  that  I’m  a 
writer — doing  feature  stuff  up  to  now.  I’ve 
decided,  though,  to  take  a flyer  at  some  pulp 
fiction.  I’ve  done  a little  of  it,  not  much. 
But  that’s  why  I was  up  at  your  office.  I 
wanted  to  find  out  just  what  kind  of  stuff 
they  want  right  now,  lengths  and  so  on.” 
“Well,  I think  they’re  fairly  well  stocked 
on  the  detective  stories.  I guess  Miss  Brad- 
ley is  looking  for  short  lengths  for  her  love 
book,  and  I understand  they  can  use  both 
short  and  long  stuff  for  the  adventure  books.” 
“How  about  science-fiction?  I think  I’d 
be  best  at  that.” 

Marion  Blake  looked  up  in  surprise.  “Oh, 
you’ve  heard  about  that  then?” 

“About  what?” 

“That  Borden’s  going  to  start  a science- 
fiction  magazine.”  * 

Keith  opened  his  mouth,  and  closed  it 
again.  He  thought,  “I’ve  got  to  remember 
not  to  be  surprised  whatever  anyone  says.” 
So,  in  silence,  as  though  thinking  out  an 
answer,  he  wondered  why  Borden  would  be 
starting  a (not  another)  science-fic  when  he 
still  had  a copy  of  Surprising  Stories  with 
the  Borden  imprint  in  his  pocket. 

He  said  cautiously,  “I  did  hear  a rumor  to 
that  effect.” 

“It’s  true.  They’ve  got  one  issue  dummied 
up.  They’ll  start  it  as  a quarterly  with  a fall 
issue.  And  they’ve  filled  only  that  first  issue. 
They  are  looking  for  material  beyond  that.” 
Keith  nodded  and  took  a sip  of  his  drink. 
Casually,  he  reached  into  his  back  pocket 
and  took  the  folded  copy  of  Surprising 
Stories  from  it — the  copy  he’d  bought  in 
Greeneville  and  hadn’t  yet  read  because  he’d 
spent  all  his  reading  time  first  on  a new'spa- 
per  and  then  on  Is  the  Mist-out  Worth  It? 
and  H.  G.  Wells.  Casually  he  put  it  down  on 
the  table  to  see  what  comment  Marion  might 
make  about  it. 

She  said,  “Oh,  I see  you’ve  been  reading 
our  top  adventure  book.  Thinking  of  writing 
for  that  one,  too?” 

He  said,  “A  guy  named  Keith  Winton 
edits  this  one,  I see.  That’s  why  I asked  for 
him.  Could  you  tell  me  something  about 
him?” 

“Why — what  do  you  want  to  know  ?” 

“Oh,  anything  to  give  me  a line  on  him. 
What’s  he  look  like?” 

Marion  frowned  a little.  “He’s  tallish — 
a little  taller  than  you — and  slender.  Dark. 


UlnVEI^^^  39 

Wears  shell-rimmed  glasses.  About  thirty, 
I think.  Serious-looking,  kind  of.”  She 
giggled  a little.  “Guess  he’s  more  serious 
than  usual  latelv.” 

“Huh?  Why'?” 

“I  think  he’s  in  love,”  she  said  archly. 
Keith  managed  a smile.  “With  you  ?” 
"Me?  He  never  even  sees  me.  No,  with 
our  new  love  book  editor.  Not  that  it  does 
him  any  good,  of  course.” 

Keith  wanted  to  know  why  but  that  “of 
course”  warned  him  off.  When  people  said, 
“Of  course,”  it  meant  you  were  already  sup- 
posed to  know.  But  how  could  he  be  sup- 
posed to  know  something  about  Betty  Had- 
ley, other  than  her  name  as  editor  of  the  love 
book  mag?  Still,  if  he  could  keep  Marion 
talking  — 

“Kind  of  tough  on  him,  huh?”  he  said. 
“I’ll  say.”  Marion  sighed  deeply.  “Gee, 
any  girl  in  the  world,  I guess,  would  give 
her  eye-teeth  to  trade  places  with  Betty 
Hadley.” 

“Would  you?” 

“Would  I?  Are  you  kidding,  Mr.  Wins- 
ton ? To  be  fiancee  of  the  greatest  man  in  the 
world,  the  most  handsome,  the  most  roman- 
tic, the  most — golly!” 

"Oh,”  said  Keith,  a bit  flatly  in  spite  of 
himself.  He  gulped  the  rest  of  his  drink  and 
raised  a finger  to  signal  the  waitress.  He 
wondered  who  Betty’s  fiancee  was.  How, 
without  revealing  ignorance  of  something  he 
ought  to  know,  could  he  get  his  girl  to  keep 
on  talking?  He  didn’t  have  to. 

“Gee,”  she  murmured.  "Dopelle!”  It 
sounded  almost  like  a prayer  it  was  so 
reverent. 

Well,  he  knew  now.  And  anyway,  he 
thought,  she’s  only  engaged,  not  married. 
Maybe  there  was  a chance  yet. 

Marion  BLAKE  glanced  at  her  wrist 
watch.  “Got  to  go,”  she  said. 
“Thanks  for  the  drink,  Mr.  Winston.  You’ll 
be  in  at  the  office  tomorrow?” 

“Or  the  next  day,”  Keith  told  her.  He 
paid  for  the  drinks  and  walked  with  Marion 
to  the  subway. 

Then  he  headed  for  the  public  library  and 
took  a seat  at  one  of  the  tables.  He  took  the 
three  pniblications  he  had  left  in  his  pockets 
out  of  them  and  put  them  on  the  table  before 
him — the  copies  of  Surprising  Stories  and 
Perject  Love,  and  Gallico’s  The  Story  oj 
Dopelle. 

He  glanced  at  the  latter  bitterly.  From  the 


STARTLING  STORIES 


40 

little  he’d  heard  or  read — little  only  because 
he’d  been  in  this  screwy  place  less  than 
twenty-four  hours — this  mug  Dopelle  had  it 
in  his  fKjcket.  He  was  the  hero  of  the  whole 
'solar  system  and,  to  top  everything  else,  he 
had  Betty  Hadley,  too.  Darn  the  guy! 

He  picked  up  the  pocket  book  and  put  it 
down  again.  Once  he  started  it  he  wanted 
to  read  it  through,  and  that  would  take  all 
afternoon.  There  was  a comparatively  minor 
matter  he  could  settle  first — what  had  Marion 
Blake  meant  by  saying  that  Borden  was 
going  to  start  o science-fiction  book? 

He  picked  up  Surprising  Stories  and  veri- 
fied the  Borden  imprint  on  it  and  on  the 
contents  page.  Borden  did  have  a science- 
fiction  magazine.  He  glanced  down  the  table 
of  contents,  remembering  the  names  of  most 
of  the  writers,  names  almost  as  familiar  as 
the  name  Keith  Winton  listed  as  managing 
editor  in  the  fine  type  at  the  bottom.  A few 
of  the  titles  were  familiar — they’d  been  in 
his  own  version  of  that  issue. 

He  leafed  through  it,  first  glancing  at  the 
illustrations.  They  were  better  than  his, 
definitely,  even  though  some  of  the  artists 
were  the  same  ones.  They  were  more  vivid, 
had  more  action.  The  girls  were  more  beauti- 
ful and  the  monsters  more  horrible. 

He  started  reading  one  of  the  stories,  the 
shortest  one.  He  finished  it,  still  vaguely 
puzzled  although  a light  was  beginning  to 
dawn.  He  dipped  into  a few  other  stories, 
skimming — and  suddenly  he  knew  what 
Marion  Blake  had  meant. 

This  wasn't  a science-fiction  book!  Th^ 
were  mostly  stories  of  the  Arcturus-Sol  war, 
although  some  were  stories  of  adventure  on 
Mars  and  Venus — but  the  backgrounds  were 
consistent  and  the  backgrounds  fitted  what 
little  he’d  heard  and  read  of  Mars  and  Venus 
and  Arcturus  and — 

Well,  these  were  adventure  stories.  It 
stunned  him  for  a minute. 

He  smacked  the  book  down  on  the  table, 
drawing  a .reproving  glance  from  a librarian. 

But,  he  thought,  there  must  be  science- 
fiction  books  here  or  Borden  wouldn’t  be 
starting  one.  But  if  these  stories  were  fact 
what  would  be  science-fiction  be?  Well, 
time-travel,  for  one  thing  and — what  else 
didn’t  they  have  here?  Well,  he  could  read 
some  science-fiction  and  find  out. 

He  picked  up  the  Dopelle  book  and  stared 
at  it  bitterly  again.  Dopelle!  He  hated  the 
guy.  Anyway,  now  he  knew  how  to  pro- 
nounce his  name,  having  heard  Marion  say 


it — it  was  pronounced  as  though  it  were 
French — Dough-PELL,  with  only  two  sylla- 
bles and  the  accent  on  the  second. 

He  sighed.  That  book  came  next,  defi- 
nitely, on  his  course  of  reading.  But  should 
he  start  it  here  and  now?  No.  There  were 
more  important  things  to  do  and  they  all 
had  to  be  done  before  dark.  He  had  to  find 
a place  to  stay  and  a way  to  make  money  to 
live. 

He  took  out  his  wallet  and  counted  what 
he  had  left  out  of  the  two  thousand  credits — 
the  two  hundred  dollars  approximately — ^the 
Greeneville  druggist  had  given  him.  There 
was  about  half  of  it  left.  Enough  maybe,  to 
last  him  a week  if  he  was  careful — certainly 
not  longer  than  that,  since  he’d  have  to  buy 
himself  some  shirts  and  sox  and  a toothbrush 
and  a razor  and  comb  and  heaven  knows 
what  else,  starting  from  scratch. 

Or  did  he,  in  this  universe,  still  have  a 
closet  and  a bureau  full  of  clothes  in  a nice 
little  two-room  bachelor  apartment  down  on 
Gresham  Street  in  Greenwich  Village?  He 
considered  the  possibility  and  discarded  it. 

If  this  universe  were  equipped  with  a Keith 
Winton  (who  obviously  didn’t  even  resemble 
him)  who  had  his  job  at  Borden  Publi- 
cations, then  this  wasn’t  a universe  with  a 
neat  hole  for  him  to  fit  into,  anywhere. 

No,  here  and  now  he  had  to  be  Karl  Wins- 
ton and  make  a niche  for  himself — at  least 
until  he  found  out  what  it  was  all  about. 
He’d  be  walking  a tightrope  for  awhile  too — 
one  mistake  and  it  would  be  too  bad. 

But  how,  what,  where? 

He  shoved  those  wondarings  reso- 
lutely aside.  There  must  be  an  answer, 
maybe  even  a way  back.  But  survival  came 
first  and  his  mind  must  be  free  to  plan  and 
to  plan  intelligently.  How  could  he  parlay 
a hundred  bucks  worth  of  credits  into  a 
future  ? 

He  thought,  and  figured  and  planned. 
After  awhile  he  went  to  the  desk  and  bor- 
rowed paper  and  a pencil  from  the  librarian. 
Returning  to  his  table  he  began  to  make  a 
list  of  things  he’d  need  and  its  length  appalled 
him.  But,  he  thought,  when  he  had  it  finished 
that  he  could  do  it  for  about  forty  dol — four 
hundred  credits — he  corrected  himself — and 
have  six  hundred  to  live  on  for  awhile. 

Outside  he  saw  with  relief  that  some  of 
the  stores  were  still  open — although  it  was 
three  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  now. 

He  found  a dime-store  that  was  operating 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


and  started  there,  realizing  that  he  couldn’t 
afford  to  be  fastidious  about  little  things 
and  things  that  wouldn’t  show.  He  started 
with  a small  cardboard  suitcase,  the  cheapest 
he  could  find.  He  went  on  from  there  to 
socks  and  handkerchiefs  and  razor  and  tooth- 
brush and  on  down  the  list. 

Gauze  bandage  and  an  antiseptic  for  his 
shoulder — pencils  and  a ream  of  paper — 
the  list  seemed  endless  and,  when  he  had 
added  a few  shirts  from  a cheap  haberdashery 
shop,  the  suitcase  was  almost  full. 

He  had  the  suit  he  was  wearing  sponged 
and  pressed  while  he  waited  in  a cubicle  at 
the  back  of  a cleaner’s  shop  and  he  had  his 
i;hoes  shined. 

His  final  purchase,  and  it  left  him  almost 
exactly  five  hundred  credits,  was  an  armful 
of  pulp  magazines  of  various  kinds.  He  took 
his  time  picking  them  out,  especially  for  the 
purpose  he  had  in  mind. 

It  was  while  he  was  making  that  final 
purchase  that  the  crowd  must  have  gathered. 
When  he  came  out  of  the  drugstore  w'here 
he’d  bought  the  magazines  the  edge  of  the 
sidewalk  was  lined  half  a dozen  deep  and, 
from  down  the  street  a block  or  so,  came  the 
sound  of  wild  cheering. 

He  hesitated  a moment  and  then  stood 
still,  backed  against  the  window  ot  the  drug- 
store. Whatever  was  coming  he  could  see 
better  there  than  by  pushing  up  against  the 
crowd  at  the  curb. 

Something  or  someone  was  coming.  The 
cheering  grew  nearer.  Keith  saw  that  all 
traffic  had  stopped  and  pmlled  toward  the 
curbs.  Two  policemen  on  motorcycles  came 
along  and  behind  them  was  a car  with  a uni- 
formed man  at  the  wheel. 

There  wasn’t  anyone  in  the  back  seat  of 
the  car  but  above  it,  floating  in  midair  about 
ten  feet  above  the  car  and  keeping  pace  with 
it,  was  something.  It  was  a round,  feature- 
less, blank  metal  sphere  the  size  of  a basket- 
ball. 

The  cheering  grew  as  it  came  nearer. 

Keith  stared,  incredulous.  Other  people 
had  backed  up  alongside  him  to  see  better. 

He  heard  words  now  that  were  part  of  the 
cheers  and  recognized  one  of  them.  “Mekky ! 
Mekkyl  MEKKY!”  And  someone  beside 
him  yelled,  “Get  the  Arcs  for  us,  Mekky!” 

But  over  or  under  the  cheering,  Keith 
suddenly  heard  a voice  that  wasn’t  a cheer- 
ing, yelling  voice.  It  was  a calm,  clear  voice 
that  seemed  to  come  from  everywhere  or 
nowhere. 


41 

"Very  interesting,  Keith  Winton,”  it  said. 
"Come  and  see  me  some  time.” 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Advice  from  a Sphere 


Keith  started  violently  and  looked 
around  him.  No  one  near  him  was 
looking  at  him.  But  the  suddenness  with 
which  he  turned  made  the  man  to  his  right 
turn  and  stare. 

“Did  you  hear  that?”  Keith  demanded. 
“Hear  what?” 

“Something  about — about  a Keith  Win- 
ton?” 

“You’re  crazy,”  the  man  said.  His  eyes 
left  Keith’s  and  went  to  the  street  again,  and 
he  yelled  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  “Mekky! 
’Ray  for  Mekky !” 

Keith  stumbled  out  from  the  building  into 
the  open  area  of  walk  between  the  crowd  at 
the  back  of  the  sidewalk  and  the  crowd  at  the 
curb.  He  tried  to  keep  piace  with  the  car 
and  the  thing  that  floated  above  it,  the  basket- 
ball-sized sphere.  He  had  the  strangest  feel- 
ing that  it  was  that  thing  which  had  spoken 
to  him. 

If  so,  it  had  called  him  by  name  and  no 
one  else  had  heard  it  Now  that  he  thought 
of  it  that  voice  hadn’t  seemed  to  come  from 
outside  at  all.  It  had  been  inside  his  head. 
And  it  had  been  a flat,  mechanical-sounding 
voice.  It  hadn’t  sounded  like  a human  voice 
at  all. 

Was  he  going  crazy?  Or  zvas  he  crazy? 
But  whatever  the  explanation,  he  had  a 
blind  impulse  not  to  lose  sight  of — of  what- 
ever the  basketball  was.  It  had  called  him 
by  name.  Maybe  it  knew  the  answer  to  why 
he  was  here— to  what  had  happened  to  the 
world  as  he,  Keith  Winton,  knew  it — to  the 
world  in  which  there’d  been  two  world  wars 
but  no  interplanetary  ones,  to  the  world  in 
which  he’d  been  editor  of  a science-fiction 
magazine  which — here — was  an  adventure 
magazine  and  was  edited  by  someone  who 
had  the  name  of  Keith  Winton  but  didn’t 
even  look  like  him. 

Was  the  basketball-sized  sphere  Mekky? 
Maybe  Mekky  had  the  answers.  Mekky 
had  said,  "Come  and  see  me  some  time” ! 

He  stumbled  into  p>eople,  his  suitcase 
banged  legs,  he  drew  sharp  looks  and  sharp 


STARTLING  STORIES 


42 

words — but  he  kept  going,  not  quite  keeping 
up  with  the  pace  of  the  car  out  in  the  street 
but  not  losing  much  ground  either. 

And  the  voice  came  inside  his  head  again. 
"Keith  Winton,”  it  said.  "Stop.  Don’t  fol- 
low. You’ll  he  sorry.” 

Keith  started  to  yell  his  answer.  “Why? 
Who  are — ” and  realized  that,  even  over  the 
cheering,  people  were  hearing  him  and  turn- 
ing to  stare. 

"Don’t  attract  attention,”  the  voice  said. 
"Yes,  I can  read  your  thoughts.  Yes,  I am 
Mekky.  Do  as  you  have  planned  and  see  me 
later — three  months  from  now.” 

“Why?”  Keith  thought.  “Why  so  long?” 

"A  crisis  in  the  war,”  said  the  voice.  "The 
human  race  is  at  stake.  The  Arcturians  can 
win.  I have  no  time  for  you  now.” 

“What  shall  I do?” 

"As  you  have  planned,”  the  voice  said. 
"And  be  careful.  You  are  in  danger  every 
minute.” 

Keith  tried  desperately  to  frame  a question 
that  would  give  him  the  answer  he  sought. 
“But  what  happened?  Where  am — ” 

"Later,”  said  the  voice.  "Later  I will  try 
to  solve  your  problem.  I perceive  if  through 
your  mind  but  I do  not  know  the  answer 
yet.” 

“Am  I crazy?” 

"No.  And  do  not  make  one  fatal  mistake. 
This  is  real — it  is  not  a figment  of  your 
imagination.  Your  danger  here  is  real  and  if 
you  are  killed  here  you  are  very  dead.  I have 
no  time  now.  Stop  following.” 

Abruptly  in  Keith’s  mind,  before  he  could 
again  hear  the  sounds  of  cheering  and  the 
other  noises,  there  was  a sudden  sensation 
of  silence.  Whatever  had  been  in  his  mind 
had  withdrawn.  He  knew  that  without 
know'ing  how  he  knew.  He  knew  there 
wasn’t  any  use  framing  another  question 
there.  There  wouldn’t  be  any  answer. 

Obedient  to  the  last  order  he  stopped  walk- 
ing. He  stopped  so  suddenly  that  someone 
bumped  into  him  from  behind  and  snarled  at 
him. 

He  caught  his  balance  and  stood  staring 
down  the  street,  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd, 
at  the  sphere  that  was  floating  away  from 
him,  out  of  this  life.  What  was  it?  What 
kept  it  up  there?  Was  it  alive?  How  could 
it  have  read  his  mind?  And  it  seemed  to 
know  who  he  w^as,  what  his  problem  was — 
but  not  the  answer. 

He  didn’t  want  to  let  it  go.  Wait  three 
months?  Impossible  when  he  could  get  the 


answer  now ! But  he  couldn’t  keep  up  with 
that  car  through  the  crowd  while  he  was 
burdened  with  the  suitcase  and  the  armful 
of  magazines.  He  looked  about  him  wildly 
and  saw  that  he  was  in  front  of  a cigar  store. 

He  darted  in  and  put  the  suitcase  and 
magazines  down  on  a soft  drink  cooler  near 
the  entrance.  He  said,  “Back  in  just  a sec- 
ond. Thanks  for  watching  these,”  and  ran 
out  again  before  the  man  could  protest. 

UTSIDE  again  he  could  go  faster.  He 
held  his  ground  half  a block  behind 
the  car  and  the  motorcycles  and  even  gained 
a little.  They  turned  south  on  Third  Avenue, 
west — just  around  the  corner — on  Thirty- 
seventh  Street.  And  there  was  a big  crowd 
gathered  there.  The  motorcycles  and  the  car 
stopped  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd. 

The  sphere  that  had  floated  above  the  car 
didn.’t  stop.  It  floated  on  and  up,  over  the 
heads  of  the  people.  Up,  up,  to  the  open 
window. 

It  was  Betty  Hadley. 

Keith  Winton  got  to  the  edge  of  the 
'crowd  and  stopped.  No  use  pushing  his 
way  farther — he  could  see  better  here  than 
closer  in  against  the  building.  The  cheering 
was  tremendous. 

Besides  “Mekky,”  he  heard  “Dopelle” 
and  “Betty”  in  with  the  cheers.  The  sphere 
floated  up  until  it  was  level  with  the  open 
window,  beside  Betty  Hadley’s  shoulder.  It 
paused  there,  hovering. 

It  spoke.  This  time,  Keith  knew  instinc- 
tively, it  was  not  speaking  to  him  alone,  as 
it  had  back  there  when  it  had  first  passed 
him.  He  knew  somehow  that  the  words  he 
was  hearing  inside  his  head  were  echoing 
in  the  heads  of  all  who  stood  there. 

The  cheering  didn’t  even  stop.  It  didn’t 
have  to,  Keith  realized.  The  words  that 
formed  inside  his  head,  in  that  mechanical 
voice,  were  different  in  nature  from  the 
sounds  that  came  through  his  ears.  He  could 
hear  both  at  once  and  one  didn’t  interfere 
with  the  other. 

"Friends,”  said  the  voice,  "I  leave  you 
now  to  bear  a message  from  my  master 
Dopelle  to  Miss  Hadley.  A private  message, 
of  course.  I thank  you  for  the  courtesy  you 
have  shown.  And,  from  my  master,  these 
zvords  to  all  of  you — ‘The  situation  is  still 
critical,  and  we  must  all  do  our  best.  But  be 
of  good  cheer.  There  is  hope  for  victory. 
We  must  zvin — we  shall  win.’  ” 

"Mekky!”  the  crowd  roared.  “Dopelle!” 


WHAT  MAD 

“Betty!”  '‘Victory!”  “Down  With 
Arcturus!”  ‘’M&kky,  Mekky,  MEKKY!” 

Betty  Hadley,  Keith  saw,  was  smiling, 
her  cheeks  and  throat  flushed  with  embar- 
rassment. Now  she  bowed  once  and  with- 
drew her  head  and  shoulders  inside  the  win- 
dow. The  sphere  floated  in  after  her. 

The  crowd  began  to  disperse. 

Keith  groaned.  He  tried  to  hurl  a thought 
at  the  sphere  but  he  knew  it  was  too  late. 
It  wouldn’t  pay  any  attention  to  him  if  it 
heard  him,  if  it  received  the  thought. 

Well,  it  had  warned  him.  If  it  had  been 
inside  his  mind  it  must  have  known  that  he 
loved  Betty  and  it  had  warned  him  not  to 
follow.  It  would  have  saved  him  the  despair 
and  bitterness  that  he  was  feeling  now. 

It  hadn’t  meant  much — not  too  much,  that 
is — when  Marion  Blake  had  told  him  that 
Betty  was  engaged.  As  long  as  she  wasn’t 
actually  married  there  was  hope  for  him,  he’d 
thought.  He’d  hoped  he  could  make  her  for- 
get this  dope  Dopelle.  But — what  a chance! 

Far  more  than  anything  he’d  read  about 
that  magnificent  hero,  the  exhibition  he’d 
just  seen  had  made  him  realize  what  a 
romantic  celebrity  Dopelle  must  be!  “My 
master  Dopelle,”  the  sphere  had  called  him. 
And  all  'New  York  was  cheering  him  when 
he  wasn’t  even  there. 

What  a chance  he,  Keith  Winton,  had  to 
take  away  the  fiancee  of  a guy  like  that! 

He  walked  back  moodily  to  the  cigar  store 
where  he’d  left  his  suitcase  and  magazines 
and  apologized  to  the  clerk  for  the  manner  of 
his  leaving  them. 

The  streets  were  beginning  to  empty  when 
he  came  out  of  the  cigar  store.  He  realized 
it  must  be  getting  near  dusk  and  that  he 
must  find  a place  to  stay. 

He  hunted  until  he  found  an  inexpensive 


UNIVERSE  43 

little  hotel  where — for  a hundred  and  twenty 
credits  in  advance — ^he  took  a room  for  a 
week. 

In  his.  room  he  picked  up  one  of  the  pulp 
magazines.  Now  for  the  plan — and  the  voice 
that  had  been  Mekky,  the  sphere,  had  tol4 
him  to  go  ahead  with  his  plan. 

For  awhile,  a long  while,  he  couldn’t  really 
concentrate.  Betty  Hadley’s  face  with  its 
aura  of  blonde  hair,  its  smooth  creamy  skin 
and  kissable  red  lips,  kept  getting  in  the  way. 
Why  hadn’t  he  had  sense  enough  to  obey 
the  sphere’s  orders  not  to  follow  it — and  get 
himself  in  a mood  like  this,  just  when  he  had 
to  be  able  to  think  hardest. 

Thinking  of  the  hopelessness  of  his  ever 
getting  Betty  made  what  he  was  doing  seem 
futile  and  useless.  But  after  awhile,  in  spite 
of  himself,  he  began  to  get  interested  in  the 
magazines.  And  he  began  to  see  that  his 
plan  was  really  possible. 

Yes,  he  thought  he  could  make  a living 
for  himself  writing — for  some  of  these  maga- 
zines, at  any  rate.  Five  years  earlier,  before 
he’d  started  working  for  Borden,  Keith  had 
done  quite  a bit  of  free-lancing.  He’d  sold  a 
number  of  stories  and  he’d  written  several 
that  hadn’t  sold. 

In  fact,  his  batting  average  had  been  about 
fifty-fifty  and — for  a writer  who  wasn’t  too 
prolific,  and  who  had  difficulty  plotting — 
that  hadn’t  been  too  good.  Besides,  his 
stories  hadn’t  come  easily.  He’d  had  to 
sweat  them  out  painfully.  So,  when  a steady 
job  at  a fairly  good  wage  had  been  offered 
him,  he’d  quit  writing. 

But  now,  with  five  years  of  editing 
under  his  belt,  he  thought  he  could  do 
better  at  it  than  he  had  before.  He  could  see 

[Turn  page] 


TRY  ITI  Scratch  your 
head!  If  you  find 
signs  of  dryness, 
loose  ugly  dandruff, 
you  need  Wildroot 
Cream-Oil  hair 
tonic.  Grooms  hair 
relieves  dryness  . . ; 
. . ; removes  loose 
dandruff! 


A lITTlE  Wildroot 
Cream-Oijl  does  a 
lot  for  yout  Jiair. 

Keepsyour  hair  well 
groomed  all  day 
long.  Leaves  no 
trace  of  that  greasy, 
plastered  down 
look.  Makes  hair 
look  and  feel  good. 


CREAM-OIL  CHARLIE 
SAYS:  "IT  CONTAINS 

LANOLIN!” 


TUHI  IN  . i i 
**Th«  Advenfuro* 
of  Som  Spado" 
Sunday  ovenings« 
CBS  Network* 


44  STABTUmi  ST(HtlES 


now  what  a lot  of  his  mistakes  had  been — 
laziness  among  them.  And  the  laziness,  at 
least,  was  curable. 

Besides,  this  time  he  had  plots  to  start 
with — the  plots  of  all  of  the  unsold  stories  he 
could  remember.  He  thought  he  could  do 
better  with  them  now  than  he  had  five  years 
ago,  a lot  better. 

He  went  through  magazine  after  magazine, 
skimming  all  the  stories,  reading  some  of 
them.  It  got  dark  and  the  black  blankness 
of  the  mist-out  pressed  against  the  pane  of 
his  window  but  he  kept  reading. 

One  thing  became  increasingly  obvious  to 
him — he  couldn’t  and  didn’t  dare  try  to  place 
stories  in  a setting  with  which  he  was  as 
unfamiliar  as  he  was  with  the  world  about 
him.  He’d  make  mistakes,  little  mistakes, 
that  would  give  him  away,  things  that  would 
show  his  unfamiliarity  with  the  little  details 
of  life  here. 

Fortunately  that  left  him  two  fields.  From 
his  reading  of  Wells’  Outline  of  History  he 
knew  that  the  differences  here  all  dated  from 
those  vanishing  sew'ing  machines  of  1903. 
On  any  story — adventure,  love  or  what  have 
you — written  as  a costume  piece  and  placed 
before  1903,  he  was  on  sure  ground.  Luck- 
ily. too,  he’d  been  a history  major  at  college 
and  was  pretty  familiar  with  the  subject — 
particularly  American  history. 

He  noticed  with  satisfaction  that  the  love 
and  adventure  magazines  both  carried  a fair 
percentage  of  costume  pieces — more  than  the 
love  and  adventure  magazines  of  where  he’d 
come  from.  Possibly  because  there  was  a 
wider  difference  here  between  life  of  a hun- 
dred or  two  hundred  years  ago  and  life  of 
today,  the  settings  of  the  eighteenth  and 
nineteenth  centuries  seemed  more  romantic 
and  interesting. 

Even  the  love  pulps — he  was  both  sur- 
prised and  satisfied  to  learn — carried  histori- 
cal stories,  love  tales  put  in  Civil  War,  Revo- 
lutionary War  and  pioneer  settings. 

The  other  field  he  could  tackle  was,  of 
course,  pure  fantasy.  He’d  bought  only  one 
fantasy  magazine  but  he'd  seen  that  there 
were  others  on  the  stands.  And  in  pure  fan- 
tasy— or  semi-science-fiction  adventures  in 
far  and  non-existent  galaxies — he  couldn’t 
go  w'rong.  Nor  in  stories  of  the  distant  fu- 
ture. As  long  as  he  avoided  the  present,  the 
recent  past  and  the  near  future,  he’d  be  all 
right. 

He  finished  his  study  of  the  magazines  by 
ten  o’clock  and,  from  then  until  midnight. 


he  sat  at  the  little  desk  in  hts  ro<»n,  pencil  m 
hand  and  paper  before  him,  jotting  down 
notes  of  all  the  stories  he  could  remember 
having  written  and  not  sold.  He  was  able  to 
remember  twenty  stories. 

Of  the  twenty,  six  had  been  historical  cos- 
tum pieces  and  those  were  in — ^particularly 
the  shorter  ones  that  he  could  re-write  com- 
paratively quickly.  Another  six  he  picked 
out  as  being  fairly  easy  to  translate  into  his- 
torical or  fantastic  settings. 

A dozen  stories,  then,  to  start  on,  as  soon 
as  he  could  get  hold  of  a typewriter — if  he 
could  sell  one  or  two  of  them  quickly,  he’d 
be  all  right.  If  not — well,  there  were  still  the 
coins  in  his  pocket.  A quarter  had  brought 
him  two  thousand  credits  in  Greeneville. 
But  he’d  got  himself  into  a jam.  He  wasn’t 
going  to  take  that  risk  again  unless  he  had 
to — ^and  then  not  without  studying  up  on  the 
subject  and  learning  what  the  pitfalls  were. 

By  midnight  he  was  sleepy.  But  he  hadn’t 
finished  all  he  wanted  to  do  yet.  He  picked 
up  The  Story  of  Dopelle  by  Paul  Gallico  and 
started  to  read. 

Now  to  find  exit  what  the  competition 
really  was — 


CHAPTER  IX 
The  Dope  on  Dopelle 


The  competition,  he  learned  within  the 
next  hour,  was  not  only  terrific.  It  was 
impossible. 

Dopelle  (he  didn’t  seem  to  have  a first 
name  at  all)  was  simply  unbelievable.  He 
was  Napoleon  and  Alexander  the  Great  and 
Einstein  and  Edison  and  Philo  Vance  and 
Galahad  all  rolled  into  one.  And  he  was 
only  twenty-seven  years  old. 

The  sketch  of  the  first  seventeen  years  of 
his  life  was  brief.  He’d  been  brilliant  in 
school,  skipped  a lot  of  grades  and  had  been 
graduated  by  Harvard  (magna  cum  laude) 
at  the  age  of  seventeen,  president  of  his  class 
and  the  most  popular  man  of  his  class  despite 
his  comparative  youth. 

Prodigies  aren’t  usually  popular,  but  Do- 
pelle had  been  an  exception.  He  hadn’t  been 
a grind.  His  high  standing  in  his  classes 
was  due  to  his  ability  to  remember  perfectly 
everything  he  read  or  heard,  obviating  the 
necessity  for  hard  study. 


WHAT  MAD 

Despite  his  heavy  schedule  of  classes  (he’d 
taken  about  everything  Harvard  had  to  of- 
fer) he’d  had  time  to  captain  an  undefeated 
and  untied  football  team.  He  had  worked 
his  way  through  school  (and  become  finan- 
cially independent  in  the  process)  by  writ- 
ing, in  his  spare  time,  six  adventure  novels 
which  had  become  best  sellers  at  once  and 
still  rated  as  top  classics  in  their  field. 

The  wealth  these  books  brought  him  en- 
abled him  to  own  his  own  private  space- 
cruiser  and  his  own  laboratory  where — dur- 
ing his  last  two  years  of  college — ^he  had  al- 
ready made  several  important  improvements 
in  the  technique  of  space  travel  and  space 
warfare. 

That  was  Dopelle  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
just  an  ordinary  young  fellow.  His  career 
had  started  then. 

He’d  gone  from  Harvard  to  a Space  Offi- 
cers’ Training  School,  emerged  a lieutenant 
and  had  jumped  grades  rapidly  for  a year 
or  so.  At  twenty-one  he  was  in  charge  of 
counter-espionage,  and  was  the  only  man 
who  had  successfully  been  to  the  Arcturian 
system  and  lived  among  the  Arcs.  Most 
Earthly  knowledge  of  the  Arcturians  had 
been  obtained  by  him  on  that  trip. 

He  was  an  incredibly  good  space-pilot  and 
fighter.  Time  and  again  his  squadron  had 
turned  back  Arcturian  attacks  with  Dopelle 
spearheading  as  well  as  directing  the  fighting. 
The  brass  had  begged  him  not  to  fight  per- 
sonally'because  his  scientific  knowledge  was 
invaluable — but  he  fought  anyway  (by  this 
time  he  was  apparently  above  authority)  and 
seemed  to  bear  a charmed  life.  His  bright 
red  space-ship,  the  Vengeance,  was  never  hit. 

At  twenty-three  he  was  general  of  all  the 
Solar  forces  but  command  seemed  to  be  the 
least  important  of  his  activities.  Except  dur- 
ing times  of  crises  he  delegated  authority  and 
spent  his  time  having  exciting  adventures  in 
espionage  and  counter-espionage  or  in  work- 
ing in  his  secret  laboratory  on  the  Moon. 
The  list  of  his  scientific  accomplishments  in 
that  laboratory  was  almost  unbelievable. 

The  greatest  of  them,  perhaps,  was  the 
creation  of  a mechanical  brain,  Mekky.  In- 
to Mekky  Dopelle  had  put  powers  of  thought 
not  possessed  by  human  beings.  Mekky 
wasn’t  human  but  he  (actually  it,  of  course, 
Gallico  pointed  out,  but  nevertheless  always 
referred  to  as  he)  was  super-human. 

Mekky  could  read  minds — including  Arc- 
turian minds — and  could  perform  thought- 
transference.  Also  he  could  scJve  (as  an 


UNIVERSE  45 

electronic  calculating  machine  can  solve)  any 
problem,  however  difficult,  given  all  the  fac- 
tors. 

Into  Mekky  also  was  built  the  ability  to 
transfer  himself  instantaneously  through 
space  without  the  necessity  of  having  a space- 
ship to  ride  in.  This  made  him  invaluable  as 
an  emissary,  enabling  Dopelle,  wherever  he 
was,  to  keep  in  touch  with  his  space  fleets 
and  with  the  governments  of  Eiarth. 

Briefly  and  touchingly  near  the  end  of  the 
book  Gallico  told  of  the  romance  between 
Dopelle  and  Betty  Hadley.  They  were,  it 
seemed,  engaged,  but  had  decided  to  wait 
until  the  end  of  the  war  to  marry. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Hadley  continued  to  keep 
her  job  as  editor  of  the  world’s  most  popular 
love  story  magazine,  the  job  she  had  held 
when  she  and  Dopelle  had  met  while  he  was 
in  New  York  incognito  on  an  espionage  job. 
They  had  fallen  in  love  immediately  and 
deeply.  Now  the  whole  world  loved  them 
and  eagerly  awaited  the  end  of  the  war  and 
the  day  of  their  marriage. 

Keith  Winton  frowned  as  he  put  down  the 
book.  Could  anything  possibly  be  more  hope- 
less than  his  loving  Retty  Hadley  ? 

Somehow,  it  was  the  very  hopelessness  of 
things  that  gave  him  hope,  a shred  of  hope. 
The  cards  just  couldn’t  possibly  be  stacked 
that  badly  against  him.  There  might  be  a 
catch  somewhere. 

It  was  after  one  o’clock  when  he  undressed 
for  bed  but  he  phoned  the  desk  of  the  hotel 
and  left  a call  for  six.  Tomorrow  was  going 
to  be  a busy  day.  It  had  to  be  if  he  were  to 
keep  on  eating  after  a week. 

And  he  went  to  sleep  and  dreamed — the 
poor  goof — of  Betty.  Of  Betty  dressed 
(more  or  less)  in  one  of  the  costumes  worn 
by  girls  on  the  cover  pictures  of  science-fic- 
tion magazines,  being  chased  by  a purple 
Bern. 

Only  he,  Keith,  was  the  purple  Bern  and 
he  was  thwarted  when  he  almost  caught 
Betty  by  a tall  dashing  romantic  young  man 
who  had  muscles  of  steel  and  who  must  be 
Dopelle,  although  he  looked  uncommonly  like 
Errol  Flynn. 

Dopelle  picked  up  the  purple  Bern  that 
was  Keith  and  said,  “Back  to  Arcturus, 
spy!”  and  threw  him  out  into  space  and  he 
was  spinning  head  over  purple  heels  out 
among  the  planets  and  then  among  the  stars. 
He  was  going  so  fast  that  there  was  a ringing 
sensation  in  his  ears.  The  sormd  got  louder 


STARTUNG  STORIES 


46 

and  louder  until  he  quit  being  a purple  Bern 
and  realized  that  the  ringing  was  the  tele- 
phone. 

He  answered  it  and  a voice  said,  “Six 
o’clock,  sir.” 

He  didn’t  dare  lie  down  again  or  he’d  go 
to  sleep,  so  he  sat  on  the  bed  awhile,  think- 
ing, remembering  the  dream. 

What  did  Dopelle  look  like?  Like  Errol 
Flynn,  as  he  had  dreamed?  Why  not? 

If  he  ever  saw  Dopelle  would  it  be  any 
more  improbable  than  anything  else  that 
Dopelle  should  look  like  Errol  Flynn,  or 
even  be  Errol  Flynn?  Wasn’t  this,  maybe, 
a fantastic  movie  or  a story  or  a book  he’d 
tangled  himself  in? 

Why  not?  Dopelle,  he  thought,  was  al- 
most too  perfect,  almost  too  fantastic  a char- 
acter to  be  true.  Good  Lord,  he  sounded  like 
something  out  of  a — no,  not  out  of  a pulp 
magazine.  As  editor,  Keith  would  have  re- 
jected any  story  which  had  so  improbable  a 
character.  Like  something  out  of  a comic 
book,  maybe. 

But  wait — ^hadn’t  the  mechanical  brain, 
Mekky,  in  brief  contact  with  hhn,  anticipated 
that  very  thought? 

“ do  not  make  one  fatal  mistake.  This 
is  real.  It  is  not  a figment  of  your  imagina- 
tion. Your  danger  here  is  real — ” 

Mekky — fantastic  as  Mekky  himself  was — 
was  right.  This  universe  and  the  spot  it  had 
put  him  in  were  real  enough— -as  real  as  his 
hunger  for  breakfast  right  now. 

He  dressed  and  went  out.  At  six-thirty  in 
the  morning  the  streets  of  New  York  were 
as  busy  as — in  that  other  universe  he’d  been 
in — they  would  have  been  at  ten  or  eleven 
o’clock.  The  short  day  necessitated  by  the 
mist-out  demanded  an  early  start. 

He  bought  a Times  and  read  it  while  he 
ate  breakfast.  The  big  news  story  was,  of 
course,  the  visit  of  Mekky  to  New  York,  and 
the  reception  that  had  been  given  him.  There 
was  a picture  splashed  over  a quarter  of  the 
front  page  of  the  sphere  poised  in  midair 
outside  the  open  window  and  Betty  Hadley 
leaning  out  of  the  window,  bowing  to  the 
crowd  below. 

A boxed  item  of  ten-point  boldface  type 
gave  the  words  Mekky  had  spoken  to  the 
crowd,  just  as  Keith  had  heard  them  there, 
inside  his  head.  “Friends,  I leave  you  now  to 
bear  a message  from  my  master  Dopelle 
to—” 

Yes,  word  for  word.  And  apparently  that 
had  been  the  only  public  statement  from  the 


mechanical  brain.  An  hour  later  k had  re- 
turned to  “somewhere  in  space”  as  the  news 
story  put  it. 

He  skimmed  the  rest  of  the  paper.  There 
was  no  news  of  the  war — no  mention  of  the 
crisis  Mekky  had  said  (privately  to  Keith) 
was  impending  in  the  war.  If  things  were 
going  badly,  apparently  it  was  being  kept 
from  the  public.  If  Mekky  had  told  him  a 
military  secret  it  must  have  been  because 
Mekky  realized  that  he  was  in  no  spot  to 
spread  it  farther,  even  if  he  wished  to. 

An  item  on  an  inside  page  about  a man 
being  fined  two  thousand  credits  and  costs 
for  possession  of  a coin  interested  him.  He 
read  it  carefully  but  didn’t  find  any  answer 
to  the  problem  of  why  possession  of  coins 
was  illegal.  He  made  a mental  note  to  look 
it  up  as  soon  as  he  had  time.  Not  today — he 
had  too  much  to  do  today. 

First  thing  was  to  rent  a typewriter.  By 
taking  a chance  on  using  the  name  Keith 
Winton,  for  which  he  still  had  identification 
in  his  wallet,  he  got  one  without  having  to 
leave  a deposit  and  took  it  to  his  room  in  the 
hotel. 

He  put  in  the  hardest  day’s  work  he’d  ever 
done  in  his  life.  At  the  end  of  it — he  was 
dead  tired  by  seven  o’clock  and  had  to  quit  - 
then— he’d  finished  seven  thousand  words. 

A four  thousand  word  story  and  a three 
thousand  worder. 

True,  they  were  both  rewrites  of  stories 
he’d  written  before,  long  ago,  but  he’d  done 
a better  job  on  them  this  time.  One  was  a 
straight  action  story  in  a Civil  War  setting, 
the  other  a light  romance  set  against  the 
background  of  early  pioneer  days  in  Kansas. 

He  fell  into  bed,  too  sleepy  to  phone  down 
to  the  desk  and  leave  a call  for  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

But  he  awoke  early,  just  after  five 
o’clock.  Back  in  his  room  after  coffee 
and  doughnuts,  he  read  over  the  two  stories 
and  was  more  than  satisfied  with  them.  They 
were  good.  What  had  been  wrong  with  them 
before  hadn’t  been  the  plots — it  had  been 
the  writing  and  the  treatment  and  five  years 
as  an  editor  had  taught  him  something  after 
all. 

He  could  make  a living  writing — he  w'as 
sure  of  that  now.  Oh,  he  couldn’t  bat  out 
two  stories  a day  except  while  he  was  re- 
writing his  old  stuff  from  memory  but  he 
wouldn’t  have  to.  Once  he’d  rewritten  the 
dozen  or  so  stories  he’d  picked  out  he’d  have 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE  47 


a backlog.  Two  shorts  or  a novelet  a week 
would  be  plenty  once  he’d  used  up  his  avail- 
able old  plots  and  had  to  think  up  new  ones, 
j One  more,  he  decided,  and  he’d  start  out 
ito  peddle  them — And  start,  of  course,  with 
i Borden  Publications.  They  were  good  for 
:quick  checks  if  they  Kked  the  stories, 
j For  his  third  rewrite  job,  he  picked  a sci- 
lence-fiction,  remembering  that  Marion  Blake 
I had  told  him  they  were  in  the  market  for 
stuff  for  a new  book  in  that  field.  He  had 
one  that  wouldn’t  require  any  revamping  at 
all — a time-travel  story  about  a man  who 
goes  back  to  prehistoric  times. 

It  was  told  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
cave  man  who  encounters  the  time-traveler 
and  none  of  it  was  in  a modern  setting — so 
he  couldn’t  go  wrong. 

He  started  batting  the  typewriter  again 
and  had  it  finished  by  nine  o’clock. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  smiling  down 
at  Marion  Blake  across  the  reception  desk. 
She  smiled  back.  “Yes,  Mr.  Winston?’’ 

“Brought  in  three  stories,”  he  said  proud- 
ly. “One  I want  to  leave  with  Miss  Hadley 
for  her  book  and — who’s  running  this  new 
science-fiction  book  you  told  me  was  start- 
ing?” 

“Keith  Winton.  Temporarily  an5nvay. 
After  it’s  really  on  the  stands  th^  may  put 
someone  else  cm  it.” 

“Good,  I’ll  want  to  see  him  too,  then. 
And — I had  a copy  but  I forgot  to  notice — 
who’s  running  War  Adventure  Stories?” 

“Keith  Winton  edits  that,  too.  That  and 
Surprising  Stories  are  his  regular  books.  I 
think  he’s  free  now.  I’ll  see  if  he  can  talk  to 
you.  Miss  Hadley’s  busy  but  maybe  she’ll 
be  free  by  the  time  you’ve  talked  to  Mr.  Win- 
ton, Mr.  Winston.  Uh — your  names  are  a 
lot  alike,  aren’t  they?” 

“Almost  a coincidence — same  initial,  too.” 
He  laughed.  “Maybe  he’ll  want  me  to  use 
a different  by-line  if  he  buys  the  stories.  He 
may  figure  some  of  his  readers  will  think 
Karl  Winston  is  a nom  de  plume  of  Keith 
Winton.” 

Marion  Blake  had  pushed  a plug  into  the 
switchboard  and  was  talking  into  the  mouth- 
piece. She  pulled  the  plug.  “He’ll  see  you 
now,”  she  said.  “I — uh — told  him  you  were 
a friend  of  mine.” 

“Thanks  a lot.” 

After  he’d  started  for  Keith  Winton’s  of- 
fice he  realized  that  he  wasn’t  supposed  to 
know  the  way  until  he  was  shown,  but  it  was 
too  late  then,  so  he  kept  on  going. 


A moment  later,  Keith  Winton  sat  down 
opposite  Keith  Winton,  reached  across  the 
desk  to  shake  hands  and  said,  “I’m  Karl 
Winston,  Mr.  Winton.  Have  a couple  of 
stories  to  leave  with  you.  Could  have  mailed 
them,  of  course  but  I thought  I’d  like  to  meet 
you  while  I was  in  New  York.” 

Keith  was  studying  Winton  as  he  spoke. 
He  wasn’t  a bad-looking  guy,  about  Keith’s 
age,  an  inch  or  so  taller  but  a few  pounds 
lighter. 

His  hair  was  darker  and  a little  curlier. 
Facially,  there  wasn’t  any  particular  resem- 
blance. 

“You  don’t  live  in  New  York?” 

“Yes  and  no,”  Keith  said.  “I  mean,  I 
haven’t  been,  but  I may  be  from  now  on. 
Been  working  on  a paper  in  Boston — and 
doing  a lot  of  free-lance  feature  writing  on 
the  side.”  He’d  thought  out  his  story  and 
didn’t  have  to  hesitate.  “Got  a leave  of  ab- 
sence for  a while  and — if  I can  make  a go 
of  things  free-lancing  here — I probably  won’t 
go  back. 

“I  brought  in  two  shorts  I’d  like  you  to 
consider — one  for  War  Adventure  and  one 
for  the  new  science-fiction  book  Miss  Blake 
tells  me  you’re  starting.  I’d  appreciate  a de- 
cision as  quickly  as  I can  get  it — because  I 
w'ant  to  write  some  more  I have  planned 
along  these  lines  and  don’t  want  to  start  until 
I know  your  reaction  to  these.” 

Keith  Winton  smiled.  “I’ll  keep  them  out 
of  the  slushpile.”  He  glanced  at  the  upper 
right  corners  of  the  two  manuscripts  Keith 
had  put  on  the  desk. 

“Three  and  four  thousand.  Those  are 
lengths  we  need  and  both  books  you  men- 
tioned are  wide  open.” 

“Fine,”  Keith  said.  He  decided  to  crowd 
his  luck  a little.  “I  happen  to  have  an  ap- 
pointment in  the  building  here  on  Friday,  the 
day  after  tomorrow.  Since  I’ll  be  so  close, 
would  that  be  too  soon  for  me  to  drop  in  to 
see  if  you’ve  made  a decision?” 

Keith  Winton  frowned  a little.  “Can’t 
promise  for  sure  that  soon  but  I’ll  try.  If 
you’ll  be  in  the  building  anyway  drop  in.” 
"Thanks  a lot.”  Keith  didn’t  crowd  his 
luck  any  farther  than  that.  He  stood  up. 
“I’ll  be  in  Friday  then  about  this  time.  Good- 
bye, Mr.  Winton.” 

He  went  back  to  Marion  Blake’s  desk. 
“Yes,”  she  said,  “Miss  Hadley  is  free  now. 
You  may  go  in  her  office.”  This  time  Keith 
remembered  to  wait  until  she  pointed  out  the 
proper  door  to  him. 


STAETLING  STORIES 


ia 

Me  felt  as  though  he  were  walking 
through  thick  molasses  on  the  way  to 
the  door.  He  thought,  “I  shouldn’t  do  this. 
It’s  crazy.  I should  have  my  head  examined. 
I should  leave  the  story  for  her — or  take  it 
to  some  other  love  story  magazine  editor.” 
He  took  a deep  breath  and  opened  the 
door. 

And  then  he  knew  he  should  have  stayed 
away.  His  heart  did  a double  somersault 
when  he  saw  her  sitting  there  at  her  desk, 
looking  up  at  him  with  a slight  impersonal 
smile.  She  was  twice  as  beautiful  as  he  re- 
membered. But  of  course  that  was  silly — 
Wait — wa^  it  silly?  This  was,  somehow, 
another  universe.  It  had  a completely  differ- 
ent Keith  Winton  in  it. 

Why  shouldn’t  it  have  a completely  differ- 
ent Betty  Hadley  ? 

Only  she  wasn’t  different  really.  She  was 
just  more  beautiful.  He  couldn’t  tell  exactly 
where  the  difference  lay.  It  was  as  subtle  as 
was  the  difference  between  the  girls  on  the 
magazine  covers  back  there  and  the  ones  on 
the  covers  here.  They  were  the  same  girls 
in  the  same  costumes  but  they  had  more — 
well,  you  name  it. 

It  was  like  that  with  Betty — she  was  the 
same  girl  but  subtly  more  beautiful  and 
more  desirable.  He  was  twice  as  much  in 
love  with  her. 

Her  smile  faded  and  she  said,  “Yes?” 
Keith  realized  that  he  must  have  been  star- 
ing. 

He  said,  “My  name  is  Kei — uh — Karl 
Winston,  Miss  Hadley.  I — uh — ” 

She  saw  he  was  floundering  and  helped 
him  out.  “Miss  Blake  tells  me  you  are  a 
friend  of  hers  and  a writer.  Won’t  you  sit 
down,  Mr.  Winston?” 

“Thanks,”  he  said,  taking  the  chair  oppo- 
site her  desk.  “Yes,  I brought  in  a story 
which  ...”  And  he  went  on  talking,  or 
rather  his  tongue  did,  now  that  he’d  got  it 
back,  telling  her  substantially  the  same  story 
he’d  told  Keith  Winton. 

But  his  mind  wasn’t  on  what  he  was  say- 
ing at  all. 

And  then,  somehow,  he  was  making  his 
getaway  without  falling  over  his  own  feet 
and  the  interview  was  over  and  he  was  out 
of  the  door.  And  he  knew  he’d  never  again 
torture  himself  by  coming  that  close  to  her 
again.  Not  that  it  wouldn’t  be  worth  the 
torture  if  there  was  a chance  in  a billion  but 
there  wasn’t — there  couldn’t  be. 

He  was  so  miserable  that  he  almost  walked 


blindly  past  the  receptionist’s  desk  without 
speaking  but  Marion  Blake  called  out,  “Oh, 
Mr.  Winston.” 

He  turned  and  managed  to  make  himself 
smile.  He  said,  “Thanks  a lot.  Miss  Blake, 
for  telling  them — ” 

“Oh,  don’t  mention  that.  That’s  all  right. 
But  I have  a message  for  you  from  Mr. 
Winton.” 

“Huh?  But  I just  talked  to — ” 

“Yes,  I know;  he  just  left  to  keep  an  im- 
portant appointment.  But  he  said  he  wanted 
to  ask  you  something  and  he’ll  be  back  by 
twelve-thirty  and  could  you  telephone  him 
then?” 

“Why,  sure.  I’ll  be  glad  to.  And  again, 
thanks  a lot.” 

He  started  for  the  door,  wondering  what 
Keith  Winton  wanted  to  talk  to  him  about 
so  soon.  He’d  been  in  Betty  Hadley’s  office 
less  than  fifteen  minutes.  Winton  couldn’t 
ppssibly  have  read  even  one  of  the  two 
stories. 

But — well,  why  wonder  ? He’d  know  when 
he  phoned  at  half  past  twelve. 

As  he  walked  toward  the  elevators  in  the 
hallway  outside  Borden  Publications,  Inc., 
the  door  of  one  of  the  elevators  slid  open. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  L.  A.  Borden  emerged  and 
the  door  slid  shut  behind  them. 

Caught  unaware,  Keith  nodded  and  spoke 
to  them.  Each  of  them  nodded  slightly  and 
Mr.  Borden  murmured  something  inaudible, 
as  one  does  when  spoken  to  by  someone 
whom  one  can’t  recall. 

They  went  past  him  and  into  the  offices 
he’d  just  left. 

Keith  frowned  as  he  waited  for  a down 
elevator.  Of  course  they  didn’t  know  him 
and  he  shouldn’t  have  spoken.  It  was  a very 
slight  slip  but  he’d  have  to  be  on  the  alert 
to  avoid  even  slight  ones. 

He’d  made  one  back  in  Betty’s  office,  too, 
when  he’d  started  to  introduce  himself  as 
Keith  Winton  instead  of  Karl  Winston.  And, 
now  he  thought  of  it  Betty  had  given  him  a 
very  peculiar  look  when  he’d  made  that  slip. 
Almost  as  though — but  that  was  silly.  He 
put  the  thought  out  of  his  mind. 

It  came  to  him  again,  as  he  walked  into 
the  elevator,  that  the  similarities  of  this  uni- 
verse might  be  more  dangerous  to  him  than 
its  differences,  might  make  him  give  himself 
away  more  easily.  He  worried  about  it  a 
little. 

He’d  have  worried  about  it  more  if  he’d 
known  that  he  already  had. 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


CHAPTER  X 
Slade  of  the  W.  B.  I. 


Keith  WINTON  didn’t  feel  like  going 
back  to  his  hotel  and  grinding  out  an- 
other story  just  yet.  This  afternoon  and  eve- 
ning, maybe.  He  had  a good  start  with  three 
stories  but  three  stories,  even  fairly  short 
ones  and  rewritten,  are  plenty  for  two  days. 
He  knew  those  stories  were  good  and  he 
wanted  to  keep  up  the  quality  and  not  go 
stale.  The  rest  of  today,  then,  he’d  take  off 
and  wander  around  a bit. 

Tomorrow,  another  story  or  two,  so  he’d 
have  something  to  take  in  on  Friday  when 
he  kept  his  appointments  at  Borden.  It  was 
funny,  he  thought,  to  be  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  fence  there — to  be  taking  stories  in 
instead  of  having  writers  and  agents  bring 
them.  Maybe  he  should  get  himself  an  agent 
— no,  let  that  wait  until  he  had  a sale  or  two 
he  could  report  and  a foot  inside  the  door. 

He  strolled  over  to  Broadway  and  down 
to  Times  Square.  He  stood  looking  at  the 
Times  Building,  wondering  what  was  strange 
about  it — then  realized  that  the  strips  of  cur- 
rent news  headlines  in  electric  lights  weren’t 
flashing  around  as  they  should  have  been. 
Why  not? 

Oh  sure — because  daytime  New  York  used 
a minimum  of  electric  lighting.  Those  what- 
ever-they-were  rays  emitted  by  electric  lights 
and  detectable  by  the  Arcturian  space-ships 
were  blanked  out  at  night  by  the  mist-out  but 
by  day  they  weren’t. 

That  was  why,  then,  most  places  he’d  been 
in  had  seemed  so  dimly  lighted  compared  to 
the  offices  and  stores  and  restaurants  he’d 
known.  Come  to  think  of  it,  there  hadn’t 
been  any  artificial  light  at  all  in  most  of  them. 

He’d  have  to  watch  little  things  like  that, 
to  keep  from  giving  himself  away.  He’d  had 
the  electric  light  on  in  his  hotel  room  most 
of  the  time  he’d  been  working.  Luckily,  he 
hadn’t  been  called  on  it.  Hereafter  he’d  move 
the  desk  and  typewriter  over  closer  to  the 
window  and  leave  the  light  off. 

He  walked  past  a news  stand  slowly,  and 
read  the  headlines: 

FLEET  BLASTS  ARC  OUTPOST 


49 

That  ought  to  give  him  a kick,  Keith 
thought,  but  it  didn’t.  He  couldn’t  hate  Arc- 
turians — he  didn’t  even  know  what  they 
looked  like.  This  was  real,  yes,  but  it 
couldn’t  seem  real  to  him  yet.  It  still  seemed 
like  a dream  he  might  wake  up  from. 
Dream?  No,  more  like  a nightmare.  It  was 
a world  in  which  the  only  woman  he’d  ever 
really  loved,  head  over  heels,  was  engaged  to 
somebody  else. 

He  stood  staring  moodily  at  a window  of 
hand-painted  neckties.  Something  touched 
his  shoulder  and  he  turned  around.  He 
jumped  back,  almost  striking  the  glass  of  the 
window.  It  was  one  of  the  big  purple  haiiy 
Lunans,  a Bern,  no  less. 

It  said,  “Pardon  me,  do  you  have  a 
match?” 

Keith  wanted  to  laugh,  but  his  hand  trem- 
bled a little  as  he  handed  over  a package  of 
matches  and  then  took  it  back  when  the 
Lunan  had  lighted  a cigarette. 

It  said,  “Thank  you,  sir,”  and  walked  on. 

Keith  watched  his  back  and  the  way  he 
walked.  Despite  his  bulging  muscles  he 
walked  like  a man  wading  through  waist- 
high  water.  Heavy  gravity,  of  course,  Keith 
thought — on  the  Moon  he’d  be  strong  enough 
to  throw  Gargantua  around.  And  he  was 
slumped  down,  pulled  together  by  that  grav- 
ity. Not  an  inch  over  eight  feet  tall.  On  the 
Moon  he’d  probably  be  eight  and  a half. 

But  wasn’t  there  supposed  to  be  no  air  on 
the  Moon  ? How  could  Lunans  breathe  ? And 
they  must  breathe,  because  he’d  lighted  a 
cigarette.  Anything  that  doesn’t  breathe 
couldn’t  smoke. 

Suddenly,  and  for  the  first  time,  some- 
thing occurred  to  Keith.  He  could  go  to  the 
moon!  Mars!  Venus!  Why  not?  In  a uni- 
verse with  space-travel  why  not  take  advan- 
tage of  it?  A little  chill  of  excitement  went 
down  his  spine.  Somehow  he  hadn’t,  in  the 
few  days  he’d  been  here,  thought  of  space- 
travel  in  connection  with  himself.  Now  the 
idea  hit  him  like  a ton  of  bricks. 

It  would  take  money,  of  course.  He’d  have 
to  write  plenty — but  why  couldn’t  he? 

And  there  was  another  chance,  once  he 
had  learned  the  ropes  well  enough  to  take  a 
chance.  Those  coins  he  still  had.  If  a nine- 
teen twenty-eight  quarter  had  brought  him 
two  hundred  dollars,  maybe  one  of  the  other 
coins  he  had  would  turn  out  to  be  a rare 
one,  and  bring  him  big  money  on  whatever 
black  market  the  secret  coin  collectors  used. 
But  for  now,  that  was  too  dangerous. 


Big  Victory  for  Solar  Forces 


50 


STARTUNG  STORIES 


He  strolled  up  Broadway  as  far  as  Forty- 
sixth,  and  then  saw  by  a clock  in  a window 
that  it  was  almost  twelve-thirty.  He  went 
into  a drugstore  and  phoned  Keith  Winton 
at  Borden  Publications. 

Winton’s  voice  said,  “Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Win- 
ston, Thought  of  something  else  I wanted  to 
talk  to  you  about,  something  you  might  do 
for  us  but  it’s  a bit  complicated  to  discuss 
over  the  phone.  Are  you  free  this  after- 
noon?” 

“Yes,”  Keith  said. 

“Wonder  if  you  could  drop  up  to  my 
place.  We  can  discuss  it  over  a drink,  may- 
be.” 

“Fine,”  Keith  said.  “Where  and  when?” 

“Four  o’clock  all  right?  And  I’m  in  Apart- 
ment six  at  three-one-eight  Gresham,  down 
in  the  Village.  You’d  probably  better  take 
a cab  unless  you  know  the  district  down 
there.” 

Keith  grinned,  but  kept  his  voice  serious. 
“I  think  I can  find  it  all  right,”  he  said.  He 
ought  to  be  able  to.  He’d  lived  there  for 
four  years. 

Me  put  back  the  receiver  and  went  out 
to  Broadway  again,  this  time  walking 
south.  He  stopped  in  front  of  the  window 
of  a travel  agency. 

Vacation  Trips,  the  sign  said.  All-Expense 
Tours  to  Mars  and  Venus.  One  Month, 
5,000  Cr." 

Only  five  hundred  bucks,  he  thought.  Dirt 
cheap,  as  soon  as  he  could  earn  five  hun- 
dred bucks.  And  maybe  it  would  take  his 
mind  off  Betty. 

He  went  back  to  his  hotel,  walking  fast. 
He  jerked  paper  and  carbon  into  the  type- 
writer and  started  working  on  the  fourth 
story.  He  worked  until  the  last  minute,  then 
hurried  out  and  caught  a subway  train  south. 

The  building  was  familiar  and  so  was  the 
name  Keith  Winton  on  the  mailbox  of  Apart- 
ment 6 in  the  downstairs  hallway.  He 
pressed  the  buzzer  and  waited,  with  his  hand 
on  the  latch,  until  it  clicked. 

Keith  Winton— the  other  Keith  Winton — 
was  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  apart- 
ment as  Keith  walked  back  along  the  hall. 

“Come  in,  Winston,”  he  said.  He  stepped 
back  and  opened  the  door  wider.  Keith 
walked  in — and  stopped  suddenly.  A big 
man  with  iron-gray  hair  and  cold  iron-gray 
eyes  was  standing  there  in  front  of  the  book- 
case. There  was  a deadly  looking  forty-five 
automatic  in  his  hand  and  it  was  pointed  at 


the  third  button  of  Keith’s  vest.  Keith  stood 
very  still,  and  raised  his  hands  slowly. 

He  heard  the  door  close  behind  him. 

The  big  man  said,  “Better  frisk  him,  Mr. 
Winton.  From  behind.  Don’t  step  in  front 
of  him.  And  be  careful.” 

Keith  felt  hands  running  lightly  over  him, 
touching  all  his  pockets. 

“May  I ask  what  the  idea  of  this  is?” 
Keith  managed  to  keep  his  voice  steady. 

“No  gun,”  Winton  said.  He  stepped 
around  where  Keith  could  see  him  again. 
He  stood  there  looking  at  Keith  with  puz- 
zled eyes.  He  said,  “I  owe  you  an  explana- 
tion, sure.  And  then  you  owe  me  one.  Okay, 
Karl  Winston — if  that’s  really  y'our  name — 
meet  Mr.  Gerald  Slade  of  the  W.  B.  I.” 

“Glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Slade,”  Keith 
said.  What,  he  was  wondering,  was  the 
W.  B.  I.?  World  Bureau  of  Investigation? 
It  seemed  like  a good  guess.  He  looked  back 
at  his  host.  “Is  that  all  the  explanation  you 
owe  me?” 

Winton  glanced  at  Slade  and  then  back  at 
Keith.  He  said,  “I  thought  it  best  to  have 
Mr.  Slade  here.  You  brought  me  two  stories 
this  morning  at  the  Borden  office.  Where 
did  you  get  them?” 

“Get  them?  I wrote  them.” 

“You  mean  you  rewrote  them.  They  were 
stories  I wrote  five  or  six  years  ago.  You 
did  a nice  rewrite  job  on  them — I’ll  say  that 
for  you.  They  were  better  than  the  orig- 
inals.” 

Keith  opened  his  mouth,  and  closed  it 
again.  The  roof  of  it  felt  dry  and  he  thought 
he’d  make  a croaking  noise  if  he  tried  to  say 
anything.  It  was  so  obvious,  now  that  he 
thought  of  it. 

Why  shouldn’t  the  Keith  Winton  of  this 
universe  have  written  the  same  stories  since 
he  had  the  same  job,  lived  in  the  same  flat 
— everything  the  same  except  physical  re- 
semblance? Why  hadn’t  he  thought  of  the 
possibility  ? 

He  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue.  He 
had  to  say  something.  He  said,  “Lots  of 
stories  have  similar  plots.  There  have  been 
lots  of  cases  where — ” 

“These  aren’t  just  cases  of  similar  plots. 
Too  many  of  the  minor  details  are  identical. 
In  one  story,  the  names  of  the  two  main 
characters  are  the  same  as  in  my  original  of 
that  story.  Coincidence  won’t  wash,  Win- 
ston. Coincidence  could  account  for  similar 
basic  plots,  but  not  for  identical  bits  of  busi- 
ness. 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


"Those  stories  were  plagiarized.  I’ve  got 
copies  in  my  files  to  prove  it.” 

He  stared  at  Keith,  frowning.  He  went 
on,  “I  suspected  something  before  I finished 
reading  the  first  page  of  one  story.  When 
I’d  read  all  of  both  stories  I was  sure  of  it. 
But  I’ll  admit  I’m  puzzled.  Why  would  a 
plagiarist  have  the  colossal  gall  to  try  to  sell 
stolen  stories  to  the  very  man  who  wrote 
them  ? However  or  whenever  you  stole  them, 
you  must  have  known  I’d  recognize  them. 
And — is  Winston  your  real  name?” 
“Certainly.” 

“That’s  funny,  too.  A man  calling  him- 
self Karl  Winston  offering  stories  written  by 
a man  named  Keith  Winton.  What  I can’t 
understand,  if  it’s  a fake  name,  why  you 
didn’t  pick  one  that  wasn’t  so  close.” 

Keith  wondered  about  that  himself. 

The  man  with  the  automatic  asked,  "Got 
any  identification  w'ith  you?” 

Keith  shook  his  head  slowly.  He  had 
to  stall,  somehow,  until  he  could  fig- 
ure an  out — if  there  was  one.  He  said,  “Not 
with  me.  I can  prove  my  identity,  of  course. 
I’m  staying  ^ the  Watsonia  Hotel.  If  you 
phone  there — ” 

“If  I phone  there,”  Slade  said,  “I’ll  be 
told  a man  named  Karl  Winston  is  regis- 
tered there.  Sure,  I phoned  there  already. 
That’s  the  address  on  the  manuscripts.”  He 
cleared  his  throat.  “That  doesn’t  prove  any- 
thing except  that  you’ve  been  using  the  name 
Karl  Winston  for  the  two  days  you’ve  been 
there.” 

He  clicked  the  safety  catch  on  the  big  auto- 
matic. His  eyes  hardened.  He  said,  “I  don’t 
like  to  shoot  a man  in  cold  blood,  but — ” 
Keith  involuntarily  took  a step  backwards. 
“I  don’t  get  it,”  he  said.  “Since  when  is 
plagiarism — even  if  I were  guilty  of  it — 
something  to  shoot  a man  for?” 

“We’re  not  worried  about  plagiarism,” 
Slade  said  grimly.  “But  we’re  under  orders 
to  shoot  on  sight  anybody  suspected  of  being 
an  Arc  spy.  And  there’s  one  loose,  last  seen 
in  Greeneville  upstate.  We  got  a kind  of 
punk  description  but  you  could  fit  it.  So — ” 
“Wait  a minute,”  Keith  said  desperately. 
“There’s  a simple  explanation  of  this  some- 
where. There’s  got  to  be.  And,  if  I were 
a spy,  wouldn’t  pulling  a dumb  stunt  like 
stealing  an  editor’s  stories  and  trying  to  sell 
them  back  to  him  be  the  last  thing  I’d  do?” 
Winton  said,  “He’s  got  something  there, 
Slade.  That’s  what  puzzled  me  most  about 


51 

the  whole  thing.  And  I don’t  like  the  idea 
of  shooting  him  down  unless  we’re  sure.  Let 
me  ask  him  one  or  two  more  questions.” 

He  turned  to  Keith.  “Look,  Winston,  you 
can  see  this  is  no  time  to  stall.  It  won’t  get 
you  an>i;hing  but  bullets.  Now,  if  you’re  an 
Arc,  heaven  only  knows  why  you’d  have 
brought  me  those  stories.  Maybe  I was  sup- 
posed to  react  differently — do  something  else 
besides  call  a W.  B.  I.  man.  But  if  you’re 
not  an  Arc,  then  there  must  be  some  ex- 
planation. Can  you  give  it?” 

Keith  licked  his  lips  again.  For  a mo- 
ment, a desperate  moment,  he  couldn’t  re- 
member any  of  the  places  he’d  submitted 
those  stories  to  when  he’d  first  written  them. 
Then  he  remembered. 

He  said,  “There’s  only  one  possibility  I 
can  think  of.  Did  you  ever  submit  those 
stories  to  the  Gebhart  chain  of  pulps  in  Chi- 
cago? 

“Yes — one  of  them  anyway.  Both,  I guess. 
I’ve  got  a record  of  it.” 

“About  five  years  ago?”  Keith  pressed. 
“About  that.” 

Keith  took  a deep  breath.  He  said,  “Five 
years  ago  I was  a reader  for  Gebhart.  I 
must  have  read  your  stories  when  they  came 
in.  I must  have  liked  them  and  passed  them, 
even  if  the  editors  over  me  didn’t  buy  them. 
My  subconscious  mind  must  have  remem- 
bered them.”  He  frowned. 

“Ij  that’s  true  I’d  better  quit  writing — 
fiction,  anyway.  When  I wrote  those  stories 
recently  I thought  they  were  original.  If  it 
was  my  subconscious  memory  of  stories  I’d 
read  five  years  ago — ” 

He  saw  with  relief  that  Slade’s  grip  on 
the  pistol  wasn’t  quite  so  tight.  Slade  said, 
“Or  you  could  have  taken  notes  on  those 
stories,  intending  to  swipe  them  sometime 
later. ” 

Keith  shook  his  head.  “If  it  had  been 
deliberate  plagiarism,  wouldn’t  I have 
changed  at  least  the  names  of  the  charac- 
ters? And — ” He  started  to  say  “the  titles,” 
but  realized  in  time  that  he  wouldn’t  be  sup- 
posed to  know  whether  the  titles  were  the 
same  or  not.  He  turned  to  Winton  and 
asked,  “Did  I use  the  same  titles?” 

“On  one  of  them.  On  the  other  you  had 
a better  one.”  Winton  leaned  back  against 
the  table  behind  him  and  looked  at  Slade. 
He  said,  “That  sounds  reasonable  to  me, 
Slade.  I’m  inclined  to  believe  him.  And,  as 
he  says,  if  he  were  deliberately  plagiarizing, 
he’d  have  changed  them  more  than  he  did. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


52 

They  were  well  written — ^the  actual  writing 
is  better  than  mine  was,  I’ll  admit.”  He 
took  a deep  breath.  “It  could  be  true  and 
you  almost  shot  the  guy.” 

“I  still  should,”  Slade  said.  “You  know 
as  well  as  I do  we  aren’t  supposed  to  take 
chances  with  possible  Arcs.  In  any  case,  I’m 
not  taking  this  gun  otf  him  till  we  check 
forty  ways  for  Sunday.  For  a start,  you 
can  put  through  a long  distance  call  to  this 
Chicago  publisher  and — ^wait,  they’d  be 
closed  now,  even  if  it’s  an  hour  earlier 
there.” 

Winton  said,  “Just  a minute,  Slade.  I’ve 
got  an  idea.  When  I frisked  him,  I was  look- 
ing for  a gun  and  he  hasn’t  got  one.  But  I 
did  feel  a billfold.” 

Slade’s  eyes  got  even  harder  as  he  stared 
at  Keith.  “And  no  identification  in  it?” 

There  was,  Keith  thought  bitterly,  plenty 
of  identification — but  not  as  Karl  Winston. 
All  too  clearly  now  he  saw  all  the  mistakes 
he  had  made.  And  it  was  too  late  now  to  try 
to  correct  any  of  them.  Maybe  he  had  only 
seconds  to  live. 

The  W.  B.  I.  man  didn’t  wait  for  him  to 
answer.  Obviously  he  wasn’t  going  to  be- 
lieve him  anyway.  He  said  to  Winton,  with- 
out taking  his  eyes  off  Keith,  “Get  the  wal- 
let. And  see  if  he’s  got  anything  else  in  his 
pockets.  That’s  the  last  chance  we’ll  give 
him.” 

The  other  Keith  Winton  circled  to  ap- 
proach him  from  the  back.  Keith  took  a 
deep  breath.  This  was  going  to  be  it.  Be- 
sides the  identification  in  that  wallet  he  still 
had  the  incriminating  coins,  wrapped — so 
they  wouldn’t  clink  together — in  money  that 
was  in  dollars  instead  of  credits.  He  hadn’t 
dared  leave  the  stuff  in  his  hotel  room.  Well, 
it  didn’t  matter.  The  wallet  alone  would  be 
enough. 

This  was  it.  Either  he  was  going  to  die 
here  and  now  or  else — Heroes  in  the  stories 
he  had  bought  back  in  a sane  universe  where 
he’d  been  a Borden  editor  instead  of  an  Arc- 
turian  spy  always  managed  to  jump  a gun. 
Was  there  a chance  in  a thousand  that  it 
could  really  be  done? 

NEXT  ISSUE 

DORMANT 

by  A.  E.  VAN  VOGT 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


CHAPTER  XI 
The  Blacker  Dark 


The  . man  who  was  searching  him  was 
behind  him  now.  Keith  stood  very  still 
with  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol  aiming  right  at 
him.  His  mind  was  going  like  a millrace  but 
it  wasn’t  thinking  of  anything  that  would 
save  him  from  being  shot  within  the  next 
minute  or  two.  As  soon  as  the  other  Keith 
Winton  opened  that  wallet  and  read  the  iden- 
tification in  it.  . . . 

All  Keith’s  attention  was  on  tlie  automa- 
tic. A gun  like  that,  he  knew,  shot  steel- 
jacketed  bullets  that  would  go  right  through 
a man.  If  Slade  fired  now  he’d  probably  kill 
both  of  them,  both  Keith  Wintons. 

And  then  what?  Would  he  wake  up  back 
on  Borden’s  farm  in  Greeneville  in  a sen- 
sible world?  No,  not  according  to  what 
Mekky,  the  mechanical  brain,  had  said — 
“This  is  real.  . . . Your  danger  here  is  real. 
If  you  are  killed  here  ...” 

And,  wildly  improbable  as  Mekky  himself 
was,  he  knew  somehow  that  Mekky  was  dead 
right.  Somehow  there  were  two  universes 
and  two  Keith  Wintons  but  this  one  was  just 
as  real  as  the  one  he’d  grown  up  in.  The 
other  Keith  Winton  was  just  as  real  as  he 
was.  And  would  the  fact  that  one  shot 
might  kill  them  both  delay  the  W.  B.  I. 
man’s  finger  a second  on  the  trigger?  It 
might  or  it  might  not. 

A hand  was  reaching  into  his  hip  pocket. 
It  came  out,  holding  the  billfold.  Keith 
found  he  was  holding  his  breath.  A hand 
went  into  his  side  trouser  pocket — apparent- 
ly his  host  was  going  to  finish  the  search 
before  opening  the  billfold. 

Keith  quit  thinking  and  moved. 

His  hand  closed  on  Winton’s  wrist,  and 
he  pivoted  .and  swung  Winton  around  in 
front  of  him,  between  himself  and  Slade.  His 
trouser  pocket  ripped.  Over  Winton’s  shoul- 
der he  saw  the  W.  B.  I.  man  moving  to  the 
side  to  get  a clear  shot.  He  moved,  keeping 
Winton  between  them. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw  a fist 
coming  for  his  face  and  he  jerked  aside,  let- 
ting it  pass  over  his  shoulder  and  then 
stepped  in  low,  butting  his  head  against  Win- 
ton’s chest.  Then,  with  both  hands  and  with 
all  the  weight  of  his  body  and  the  momen- 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVEESE 


turn  of  his  forward  rush,  he  shoved  Winton 
backward  against  Slade,  following  close. 

Slade  stumbled  backward  into  the  book- 
case and  glass  crashed.  The  automatic  went 
off,  making  a noise  like  a blockbuster  in  the 
confined  space  of  the  room. 

Keith  dung  to  Winton’s  lapels  with  both 
hands  while  his  foot  kicked  up  alongside 
Winton  at  the  automatic.  The  toe  of  his  shoe 
hit  Slade’s  wrist  and  the  automatic  went  out 
of  Slade’s  hand.  It  clunked  against  the  car- 
peted floor  and  Keith  gave  a final  shove 
against  Winton’s  chest  and  then  dived  for 
the  gun.  He  got  it. 

He  backed  off,  holding  it  to  cover  both  of 
them.  He  was  breathing  hard  and — now  that 
the  immediate  action  was  over — his  hand 
was  trembling. 

There  was  a knock  on  the  door,  and  a 
sudden  hush  inside  the  apartment.  Then  a 
voice  called,  “Are  you  alf  right,  Mr.  Win- 
ton?” and  Keith  recognized  the  voice — that 
of  Mrs.  Flanders,  who  had  the  adjoining 
apartment.  He  made  his  voice  sound  as  much 
like  that  of  the  other  Winton  as  he  could. 

He  called,  “Everything’s  okay,  Mrs.  Flan- 
ders. Gun  went  off  while  I was  cleaning  it. 
The  recoil  knocked  me  over.” 

He  stood  still,  waiting,  knowing  she’d  be 
wondering  why  he  didn’t  open  the  door.  But 
all  his  attention  had  to  be  on  the  two  men 
in  front  of  him  and  he  didn’t  take  his  eyes 
off  them  a second.  He  saw  the  puzzlement 
in  Winton’s  eyes.  Winton  was  wondering 
how  he  knew  Mrs.  Flanders’  name  and  had 
recognized  her  voice. 

After  a few  seconds  he  heard  Mrs.  Flan- 
ders’ voice  again.  “All  right,  Mr.  Winton. 
I just  wondered.”  And  her  steps  going  back 
along  the  hall  to  her  own  apartment.  She 
was  still  wondering,  of  course,  why  he  hadn’t 
opened  the  door — and  there’d  been  a lot  more 
noise  than  his  falling  over  from  a recoil  could 
have  made.  But  she  wouldn’t  call  coj^r 
right  away.  She’d  keep  on  wondering  awhile 
first. 

But  some  other  tenant  might  not.  He  had 
to  do  something  quickly  about  Winton  and 
the  W.  B.  I.  man.  He  couldn’t  just  shoot 
them  but  he  couldn’t  just  walk  out  and  leave 
them  to  start  a chase  after  him.  He  needed 
at  least  a few  minutes’  grace  to  start  his 
getaway.  Getaway  to  where?  he  wondered, 
then  shoved  that  thought  out  of  his  mind. 
Right  now  he  couldn’t  figure  more  than  min- 
utes ahead. 

“Turn  around,”  he  ordered,  making  his 


53 

voice  sound  grim  and  deadly.  He  stepped  in 
close  to  them,  keeping  the  muzzle  of  the  gun 
in  the  W.  B.  I.  man’s  back — he  was  more 
afraid  of  Slade  trying  something  than  Win- 
ton— and  felt  Slade’s  hip  pockets.  Yes,  there 
was  a pair  of  handcuffs  there.  He  took  them, 
stepped  back. 

He  said,  “All  right,  step  over  by  that  post 
in  the  archway.  You,  Winton,  reach  through 
it.  Then  cuff  yourselves  together.  Wait  a 
second;  first  toss  me  your  keys,  Slade.” 

He  BACKED  to  the  door  when  they 
had  followed  his  orders.  He  started 
to  tell  them  not  to  yell,  then  realized  they 
would  anyway  and  didn’t  bother.  He  slid 
the  gun  into  his  pocket  and  went  through 
the  door. 

He  heard  their  voices  behind  him  as  he 
went  down  the  hall  to  the  stairs  and  doors 
were  popping  open.  He  walked  fast  but 
wouldn’t  let  himself  run.  Nobody,  he 
thought,  would  actually  try  to  stop  him,  al- 
though somebody  would  be  phoning  the  po- 
lice by  now. 

Nobody  did  stop  him.  He  made  the  street 
and  kept  up  his  fast  walk.  He  was  a block 
away  when  he  heard  sirens.  He  slowed  down 
instead  of  hurrying  faster  but  he  turned  oflf 
Gresham  Street  at  the  next  corner. 

Within  ten  minutes  squad  cars  would  be 
cruising  the  neighborhood  with  his  descrip- 
tion. But  by  that  time  he  could  be  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  walking  north  from  Washington 
Square  and  they  wouldn’t  be  able  to  pick 
him  out  of  the  crowd.  Or  better  yet — 

A taxi  went  by,  empty,  and  he  started  to 
hail  it,  then  swore  at  himself  as  he  realized 
he  had  forgotten  to  get  his  billfold  back, 
in  Winton’s  apartment.  On  top  of  every- 
thing else  now,  he  was  broke.  He  couldn’t 
even  take  the  subway. 

A dozen  blocks  away,  he  felt  safe  from 
the  squad  cars  that  were  undoubtedly  look- 
ing for  him.  He  was  walking  north  on  Fifth 
Avenue  then  and  the  sidewalks  were  fairly 
crowded. 

He  stepped  up  his  pace  a little  when  he 
noticed  that  most  of  the  others  were  walk- 
ing faster.  Above  all,  he  didn’t  dare  to  be 
inconspicuous.  And  there  seemed  to  be  hurry 
in  the  air. 

The  realization  of  the  reason  for  it  struck 
him  almost  like  a blow.  It  was  becoming 
twilight. 

It  was  going  to  get  dark  pretty  soon. 
Dark?  That  wasn’t  the  word  for  it.  The 


54  STABTUNG  STORIES 


blacker  dark,  the  mist-out.  All  these  people 
were  hurrying  because  they  were  scurrying 
home  to  get  under  cover  for  the  night  The 
doors  would  be  locked  and  barred  and  the 
streets  left  to  crime  and  banditry  and  scav- 
enging. 

For  the  first  time  since  he’d  made  his  get- 
away from  the  apartment  he  stopped,  won- 
dering where  he  was  going.  Not  back  to 
his  hotel,  of  course.  They’d  be  waiting  for 
him  there.  He’d  given  his  right  address  on 
those  manuscripts  he’d  turned  in  to  Win- 
ton. 

And  that  meant  he’d  lost  everything — the 
clothes,  the  suitcase,  the  toilet  articles.  Again 
and  more  bitterly  he  thought  of  his  stupidity 
in  not  getting  his  billfold  back  after  Win- 
ton  had  taken  it.  There  hadn’t  been  a lot 
in  it  but  enough  that  he  could  have  taken 
a room  for  the  night,  enough  to  have  lived 
on  for  at  least  a few  days  until  there  was 
a chance  for  him  to  figure  a new  plan  for 
living  in  this  mad  world.  Writing  was  out 
but  maybe  there  was  another  way. 

Broke,  flat  broke,  what  chance  did  he 
have?  Somehow  he’d  give  himself  away  at 
every  turn.  Of  course  there  were  the  few 
coins  from  a sensible  universe  and  he  was 
glad  now  he  hadn’t  dared  to  leave  them  in 
his  hotel  room.  But  they  represented  danger 
as  well  as  possible  capital.  He  shrugged. 
What  difference  could  a little  thing  like  that 
make  now?  If  the  police  got  him  he  was 
dead  anyway,  coins  or  no  coins. 

Slowly  he  started  walking  again,  still 
northward.  He  knew  where  he  was  going 
now.  Thirty-seventh  Street,  just  off  Third 
Avenue.  The  fifth  floor. 

It  was  dusk  when  he  got  there  and  the 
few  people  left  on  the  streets  were  hurrying, 
almost  running.  It  was  deeper  dusk  be- 
cause the  street  lights  had  not  gone  on  as 
they  should  have  by  this  time  in  the  evening. 
And  the  street  lights  weren’t  going  to  go  on. 

A janitor  was  just  reaching  to  lock  the 
outer  door  as  Keith  opened  it.  The  man’s 
hand  went  quickly  to  his  back  pocket,  but  he 
didn’t  pull  the  gun.  He  asked,  suspiciously, 
“Who  you  want  to  see?’’ 

“Miss  Hadley,’’  Keith  said.  “Just  stay- 
ing a minute.” 

“Okay.” 

■ He  walked  back  to  the  self-service  eleva- 
tor but  the  janitor’s  voice  came  back  after 
him.  “You’ll  haveta  walk.  Juice  is  off  al- 
ready, mister.  And  hurry  down  if  you  want 
me  to  take  a chance  on  opening  the  door 


to  let  you  out.” 

Keith  nodded  and  took  the  stairs  instead. 
He  went  up  them  rapidly  and  had  to  stop 
on  die  fifth  floor  landing  to  get  his  breath 
back.  Then  he  rang  the  bell  of  the  front 
apartment. 

After  a moment  Betty’s  voice  called  out, 
“Who  is  it?” 

“ICarl  Winston,  Miss  Hadley.  It’s  im- 
portant.” 

The  door  opened  on  the  chain,  and  Bet- 
ty’s face  looked  at  him  through  the  three- 
inch  opening.  Her  eyes  were  a litde  fright- 
ened. He  said,  “Awfully  sorry  to  bother  you 
so  late.  Miss  Hadley,  but  I’ve  got  to  get  in 
touch  with  Mekky.  Is  there  any  way  it  can 
be  done?” 

The  chain  slid  out  of  the  groove  and  the 
door  opened.  She  said,  “Come  in,  K-Keith 
Winton.” 

Scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  Keith  stej^ed 
into  the  room.  She’d  called  him  by  name,  by 
his  right  name. 

He  stood  with  his  back  against  the  door, 
scarcely  believing,  staring  at  her.  The  room 
was  dim,  the  shades  already  pulled  down. 
The  light  came  from  a candle  in  a candlestick 
on  the  table  behind  Betty.  Her  face  was 
shadowed  but  the  dim  light  behind  her  made 
a golden  aura  of  her  soft  blonde  hair. 

She  asked,  “You’re  in  trouble?  They 
found  you  out?” 

He  nodded. 

“You  haven’t  mentioned  Mekky  to  any- 
one else?  No  one  would  think  of  your  com- 
ing here?” 

“No.” 

She  turned  and  Keith  saw  for  the  first 
time  that  a colored  maid  was  standing  in  the 
far  doorway.  Betty  said,  “It’s  all  right. 
Della.  You  may  go  to  your  room.” 

“But,  Miss—” 

“It’s  all  right,  Della,” 

The  door  closed  quietly  behind  the  maid 
and  Betty  turned  back  to  Keith. 

He  took  a step  toward  her.  He  asked, 
“Do  you — remember — uh — I don’t  under- 
stand. Which  Betty  Hadley  are  you?  How 
could  you  have  known — ” 

It  sounded  inarticulate  and  confused  even 
to  him. 

She  said,  “Sit  down,  Mr.  Winston.  I’m 
going  to  call  you  that,  to  avoid  confusing 
you  with  the  other  Keith  Winton.  What 
happened?  Was  it  Keith  Winton  w^ho  found 
you  out?” 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE  55 


“Yes.”  Keith  laughed  a little  bitterly. 
"The  two  stories  I gave  him  were  his  own 
stories.  I didn’t  even  try  to  explain — and 
I’d  have  been  shot  first  if  I’d  tried.  And  by 
the  way,  tear  up  that  story  I left  with  you. 
It’s  both  an  original  and  a plagiarism.  But 
that’s  not  important,  now.  What  about 
Mekky  ?” 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  “You  can’t 
reach  Mekky.  He’s  back  with  the  fleet.  The 
Arcs  are — ” She  stopped  short. 

“Going  to  attack,  I suppose,”  Keith  said. 
“Mekky  told  me  there  was  a crisis  in  the 
war.”  He  laughed  a little.  “But  I can’t  get 
excited  about  the  war — I can’t  believe  in  it 
enough.  What  I want  to  know  is  what  Mek- 
ky told  you  about  me?” 

Betty  Hadley  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 
“Not  much,”  she  told  him.  “He  didn’t  know 
much  himself.  He  hadn’t  time  to  go  imder 
the  surface  of  your  mind.  But  he  learned 
that  you  were  from — somewhere  else.  He 
didn't  know  where.  He  knew  that  where 
you  came  from  you  were  called  Keith  Win- 
ton,  although  you  don’t  look  like  the  Keith 
Winton  I know. 

“He  knew  you  were  in  a jam  here  be- 
cause— well,  because  you  don’t  know  enough 
about  things  not  to  make  mistakes.  He  knew 
you  were  not  an  Arc  spy  but  that  you’d  get 
shot  for  one  unless  you  were  awfully  care- 
ful.” 

Keith  leaned  forward.  "What  is  Mekky? 
A robot,  a thinking  machine?” 

“That — and  a little  more  than  that.  Do- 
pelle  made  him  that  but — I don’t  know. 
Even  he  doesn’t  understand — he  has  emo- 
tions too.  Even  a sense  of  humor.” 

The  way  she  said  the  name  Dopelle,  Keith 
thought — the  way  she  emphasized  the  pro- 
noun— almost  capitalized  it.  She’s  more  than 
in  love  with  him,  Keith  thought — she  wor- 
ships him. 

He  closed  his  eyes  a second  and  when  he 
opened  them  he  didn’t  look  at  her.  He  hardly 
heard  w'hat  she  was  saying,  until  he  realized 
she  was  asking  a question. 

“What  can  I do?  Mekky  told  me  he  saw  in 
your  mind  that  you  might  come  to  me  for 
help.  He  said  it  would  be  all  right  if  I 
didn’t  take  any  risk  myself.” 

“I  wouldn’t  let  you  do  that,”  Keith  said. 
“And  no  one  followed  me  here  or  could  even 
suspect  I’d  come  here.  But  I don’t  know  how 
you  can  help  unless  you  can  get  in  touch 
with  Mekky.  My  masquerade  here  has  blown 
up  higher  than  a kite.  And  I haven’t  got  any 


answers  for  the  questions  the  cq>s  would  ask 
— even  if  they  stopped  to  ask  questions. 
Mekky,  I hope,  could  give  me  the  answers — 
and  vouch  for  them.” 

She  nodded.  “But  there’s  no  way  you 
could  get  in  touch  with  Mekky  unless  you 
could  get  to  the  fleet.” 

“Where’s  the  fleet?” 

SHE  hesitated,  frowning,  before  she  de- 
cided to  speak.  “Near  Saturn.  But 
you  couldn’t  get  there.  You’ll  have  to  wait  it 
out  somehow.  Have  you  money?” 

“No,  but  I don’t — wait,  there’s  something 
you  can  tell  me.  I might  be  able  to  look 
it  up  at  the  library  or  somewhere,  but  I can 
find  out  from  you  quicker.  What’s  the  score 
on  coinage — metal  coins.” 

“Metal  coins?  There  haven’t  been  any 
since  nineteen  thirty-five.  They  were  called 
in  then.” 

“Why?” 

“The  Arcs  were  counterfeiting  them — and 
paper  money,  too.  They  had  a network  of 
spies  here  then.  One  of  the  things  they  did 
was  try  to  disrupt  Earth’s  economic  sys- 
tems by  flooding  the  world  with  counterfeit 
money.  It  couldn’t  be  told  from  real  money 
even  by  experts. 

“A  bad  inflation  started  and  everything 
would  have  gone  smash.  So  the  war  coun- 
cil of  the  nations  got  some  scientists  to- 
gether and  they  figured  out  a kind  of  paper 
currency  that  couldn’t  be  counterfeited.  I 
don’t  know  what  the  secret  is.  Nobody  does, 
except  a few  scientists. 

“Something  they  use  in  the  paper  gives  ofiE 
a faint  yellowish  glow  in  the  dark  or  in  deep 
shadow.  Anybody  can  s|X)t  counterfeit  money 
because  no  counterfeiter — nor  the  Arcs — 
has  been  able  to  duplicate  paper  that  gives  off 
that  glow.” 

Keith  asked,  “Was  that  when  the  change 
was  made  from  dollars  and  cents  to  credits  ?” 
“Yes — in  all  countries.  Each  country 
backs  its  own  coinage  but  it’s  all  in  credits 
and  all  kept  at  par  so  it’s  interchangeable.” 
Keith  said,  “So  after  the  old  money  had 
been  called  in  for  exchange,  it  was  illegal  to 
possess  any.  But  there  are  coin  collectors 
who  do?” 

“Yes.  It’s  illegal  and  there’s  a pretty 
stiff  fine.  But  there  are  coin  collectors, 
plenty  of  them.  It’s  not  considered  a real 
moral  crime.” 

“Like  drinking  during  Prohibition?” 

Betty  looked  bewildered.  “Like  what?” 


56  STABTUNG  STORIES 


“Skip  it.”  Keith  took  the  little  wad  of 
money  out  of  his  pocket,  the  coins  wrapped 
in  the  bills.  He  opened  them  out  and  studied 
them.  He  said,  “I’ve  got  five  coins  here  and 
two  bills  that  are  dated  before  nineteen 
thirty-five.  About  what  would  they  be 
worth?” 

He  handed  them  to  Betty,  who  glanced  at 
them.  She  said,  “I  don’^t  know  just  what 
prices  are  paid.  I’d  guess  about  ten  thou- 
sand credits — a thousand  dollars  by  the  old 
scale.  What  are  those  other  coins  and  bills?” 

“Dated  after  nineteen  thirty-five.  So 
they’re  impossible.  I nearly  got  myself 
killed  giving  one  to  a druggist  in  Greene- 
ville.” 

“But  how  could  they  be  dated  after — ” 

Keith  sighed.  “I  don’t  know  either.  But 
I’ll  drop  them  down  the  sewer  as  soon  as 
I leave  here.  The  others  are  dangerous 
enough.  Look — about  Arcturian  spies.  Are 
Arcturians  human  beings  ? Can’t  they  tell  an 
Arcturian  from  an  Earthman?” 

“They’re  horribly  different.”  The  girl 
shuddered.  “Monsters,  More  like  insects  in 
appearance,  bigger  of  course,  and  as  intel- 
ligent as  we  are.  But  back  in  the  early  days 
of  the  war  they  captured  a lot  of  people 
alive,  on  some  of  their  first  raids.  They 
can — take  over  people,  put  one  of  their 
minds  into  a human  body  and  use  it  for  a 
spy. 

“There  aren’t  so  many  now.  Most  of 
them  have  been  killed.  Sooner  or  later  they 
give  themselves  away  because  their  minds 
are  alien.  And  since  those  early  days  they 
haven’t  been  able  to  capture  many  humans 
alive.” 

“But  even  so,”  Keith  said,  “why  shoot  on 
suspicion?  Why  aren’t  they  arrested  and, 
if  their  minds  are  actually  alien,  a psy- 
chiatrist should  be  able  to  prove  or  disprove 
that  they’re  Arcturians.  Don’t  a lot  of  in- 
nocent people  get  killed?” 

“Yes,  maybe  a hundred  for  every  real  spy. 
But — well,  they’re  so  dangerous,  especially 
now  that  the  war  is  in  the  current  stage,  that 
it’s  better,  really  better,  that  a thousand  peo- 
ple die  than  that  an  Arc  spy  should  stay  at 
large. 

“If  they  got  a few  of  our  secrets  to  add  to 
their  own  science  it  could  change  the  tide  of 
the  war.  And  that  would  mean  the  end  of 
the  whole  human  race,  the  death  of  billions. 
So  it’s  not  considered  a crime  to  kill  a human 
being  by  mistake  if  there’s  cause  to  think  he's 
an  Arc.  Don’t  you  see?” 


“Not  completely.  If  you  could  capture 
them  and  be  sure  first  wouldn’t  that  be  just 
as  good?” 

“It’s  too  dangerous.  Too  many  of  them 
have  escaped  on  the  way  to  jail  or  even  after 
they  were  locked  up.  They  have  special 
powers,  physical  and  mental.” 

EITH  grinned  wryly.  “So  one  of 
them  could  maybe  take  the  gun  away 
from  the  W.  B.  I.  man  who  was  holding  it 
on  him.  Well,  if  they  had  any  doubts  before 
in  my  case,  they  haven’t  now.” 

He  stood  up.  For  a long  moment  he 
stared  at  Betty  Hadley,  then  turned  his 
head  and  looked  at  the  window.  It  was 
black,  blank. 

The  mist-out  was  on. 

He  said,  “Thank  you.  Good-bye.” 

She  stood,  too.  Her  eyes  went  to  the 
windo\y,  as  his  had.  “But  where  are  you 
going  to  go?  You  might  take  a chance  for  a 
block  or  two  if  you’re  careful,  but — ” 

“I’m  armed.” 

“But  you  haven’t  any  place  to  go.  You 
can’t  stay  here,  of  course;  there’s  just  Della 
and  I.  But  there’s  a vacant  apartment  on  the 
floor  below.  I can  fix  it  with  the  janitor 
so—” 

"Nor 

Keith’s  answer  was  so  explosive  that  he 
felt  foolish  after  he  had  said  it. 

“But  tomorrow  I can  talk  to  the  W.  B.  I. 
I can  explain  that  Mekky  vouched  for  you 
to  me.  It  won’t  be  safe  until  Mekky  is  back 
a few  months  from  now,  for  you  to  be  run- 
ning loose — but  on  my  word  for  it  they  might 
hold  you  in  protective  custody  until  he  does 
come  back.” 

Possibly  there  was  a shade  of  uncertainty 
on  Keith’s  face,  for  she  kept  talking,  pressing 
the  point.  She  said,  “They  will  believe  me 
enough  to  give  you  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 
Because  I’m  Dopelle’s  fiancee — ” 

She  couldn’t  have  known  it,  but  it  had  been 
the  wrong  thing  to  say.  Keith  shook  his 
head  slowly. 

He  said,  “No.  I’m  going  out.  You — 
you’re  really  in  love  with  this  Dopelle?” 

She  said  only,  “Yes,”  but  the  way  she 
said  it  was  enough. 

“Good-bye  then.  Miss  Hadley,”  Keith 
said. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  but  he 
pretended  not  to  see  it.  He  didn’t  trust 
himself  to  touch  it. 

He  went  out  quickly. 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


CHAPTER  XII 
The  Moon 


N HIS  way  down  the  stairs  he  began 
to  realize  how  foolish  he  had  been 
and  to  be  glad  that  he  had  been  foolish.  He 
was  mad — not  at  anybody  but  at  everything. 
He  was  tired,  very  tired,  of  being  pushed 
around.  He’d  been  as  cautious  and  care- 
ful as  he  knew  how  and  it  had  kept  getting 
him  into  worse  and  worse  trouble. 

Now  he  was  going  to  quit  being  cautious. 
It  would  probably  get  him  killed,  and  quick- 
ly, but — well,  what  did  he  have  to  lose? 

In  the  downstairs  hallway  the  man  with 
the  gun  was  still  there.  He  said,  “Y’ain’t 
going  out,  are  you,  mister?” 

Keith  grinned  at  him.  “Yes.  Got  to  see  a 
man  about  a sphere.” 

“You  mean  Mekky?  Gonna  see  Dopelle?” 
There  was  awe  in  the  man’s  voice.  He  went 
to  the  door,  gun  ready  in  his  hand.  He 
said,  “Well,  if  you’re  a friend  of  his — and  I 
shoulda  guessed  it  if  you  were  seeing  Miss 
Hadley — maybe  you  know  what  you’re  do- 
ing. I hope  so.” 

Keith  said,  “We  both  hope  so.”  He  slid 
through  the  doorway  and  heard  the  door 
slammed  and  bolted  behind  him. 

He  stood  there  in  the  utter  blackness  of 
the  mist-out,  and  listened.  There  wasn’t  a 
sound  from  any  direction.  He  felt  his  way 
to  the  curb  and  took  off  his  shoes,  tying  the 
laces  together  and  hanging  them  around  his 
neck.  Without  them  on,  nobody  would  be 
able  to  hear  and  stalk  him. 

He  shifted  the  forty-five  automatic  to  his 
coat  pocket  and  kept  his  hand  on  it. 

It  was  easy,  if  awkward,  to  follow  the 
curb  line  by  walking  with  one  foot  on  the 
curbing  and  the  other  down  in  the  street.  The 
feel  of  a sewer  grating  under  his  foot  re- 
minded him  of  the  coins  and  bills  he  had  to 
get  rid  of,  the  ones  dated  after  nineteen 
thirty-five.  He’d  put  them  back  in  a dif- 
ferent pocket.  He  shoved  them  through  the 
grating  of  the . sewer. 

With  that  out  of  the  way,  he  went  on, 
listening. 

Funny,  he  thought ; he  wasn’t  afraid.  May- 
be because  now,  tonight,  he  was  the  hunter 
and  not  the  hunted. 

He  was  three  blocks  south  of  where  he 


57 

had  turned  onto  Fifth  Avenue  before  he 
heard  a quarry.  Not  footsteps — whoever  it 
was  either  was  standing  still  against  the 
front  of  a building  or  else  he  had,  like  Keith, 
taken  off  his  shoes  to  walk  silently.  The 
sound  Keith  heard  was  a slight,  barely  audi- 
ble snifHe. 

He  stood  very  still,  scarcely  breathing, 
until  he  heard  it  again,  and  then  he  knew  the 
man  was  moving,  going  south.  The  second 
sound  had  come  from  that  direction. 

Keith  hurried  his  steps,  almost  running, 
in  the  direction  he’d  already  been  going 
until  he  was  sure  he  was  well  ahead  of  his 
victim.  Then  he  cut  diagonally  across  the 
sidewalk  and  groped  with  his  hands  ahead  of 
him  until  he  came  to  the  building  fronts. 
Then  he  drew  the  automatic  from  his  pocket 
and  stood,  waiting. 

Something  bumped  into  the  muzzle  of  the 
pistol,  and  Keith’s  left  hand  darted  out  and 
caught  the  front  of  a coat  to  keep  the  man 
from  pulling  away.  “Don’t  move,”  he  said 
sharply,  and  then,  “Turn  around,  very 
slowly.  ” 

There’d  been  no  answer  but  a sharp  intake 
of  breath.  The  man  turned.  Keith’s  left  hand 
groped,  crossed  over,  and  pulled  a revolver 
out  of  a right  hip  picket.  He  put  it  into  his 
own  pocket.  . 

He  said,  “Don’t  move,  or  I’ll  shoot.  We’re 
going  to  talk.  Who  are  you?” 

A tight  voice  said,  “What  do  you  care  who 
I am  ? All  I got  on  me  is  about  thirty  credits 
and  that  rod.  You  got  the  rod.  Take  the 
dough  too  and  let  me  go.” 

“I  don’t  want  your  thirty  credits.  I want 
some  information.  If  I get  it  straight  I might 
even  give  your  rod  back.  Do  you  know  your 
way  around  here?” 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

Keith  said,  “I  don’t  know  the  ropes  here. 
I’m  from  St.  Lou.  I got  to  find  me  a fence.” 
There  was  a pause,  and  the  voice  was  a 
little  less  tight  now.  “Jewelry — or  w’hat?” 
it  asked. 

“Coins.  A few  bills,  too,  pre-thirty-five 
dollars.  Who  handles  the  stuff  here?” 
“What’s  in  it  for  me?” 

Keith  said,  “Your  life  for  one  thing.  Your 
gun  back.  And — if  you  don’t  try  to  cross 
me — maybe  a hundred  credits.  Two  hundred, 
if  I get  a fair  price.” 

“Peanuts.  Make  it  five  hundred.” 

Keith  chuckled.  “You’re  in  a swell  posi- 
tion to  bargain.  I’ll  make  it  two  hundred  and 
thirty.  You  already  got  the  thirty ; consider 


38  STAKTUNG  STOBIES 


I took  it  away  from  you  and  gave  it  back.” 

Surprisingly,  the  man  laughed  too. 

He  said,  “You  win,  mister.  I’ll  take 
yx>u  to  see  Ross.  He  won’t  cheat  you  any 
worse  than  anybody  else  would.  Come  on.” 
“One  thing  first,”  Keith  said.  “Strike  a 
match,  I want  a look  at  you.  I want  to 
know  you  again,  if  you  make  a break.” 
“Okay,”  the  voice  said.  It  was  relaxed 
now,  almost  friendly.  A match  scraped  and 
flared. 

Keith’s  captive,  he  saw,  was  a small,  slen- 
der man  of  about  forty,  not  too  badly  dressed 
but  in  need  of  a shave  and  with  slightly 
bleary  eyes.  He  grinned,  a bit  lopsidedly. 

“You’ll  know  me,”  he  said,  “so  you  might 
as  well  have  a handle.  It’s  Joe.” 

“Okay,  Joe.  How  far  is  this  Ross  guy?” 
“Couple  blocks.  He’ll  be  in  a game.”  The 
match  died.  “Look,  how  much  worth  of  stuff 
you  got?” 

“Somebody  told  me  ten  thousand  credits.” 
“Then  you  might  get  five.  Ross  is  square. 
But  listen — gun  or  no  gun,  you’ll  do  better  to 
cut  me  in.  There’ll  be  other  guys  there.  We 
could  take  you  easy.” 

“Okay,  Joe,  maybe  you’ve  got  something 
there.  I’ll  cut  you  in  for  a fifth— a thousand 
if  we  get  five  thousand.  Fair  enough?” 
“Yeah,  fair  enough.” 

Keith  hesitated  only  a second.  He’d  need 
a friend,  and  there  vvas  something  in  Joe’s 
voice  and  there  had  been  something  in  Joe’s 
face  that  made  him  think  he  could  take  a 
chance.  His  whole  plan — if  you  could  call  it 
that — was  a desperate  gamble. 

Impulsively,  he  took  Joe’s  revolver  out  of 
his  pocket,  groped  for  Joe’s  hand,  and  gave 
the  gun  back  to  him. 

But  there  wasn’t  any  surprise  in  Joe’s 
voice  when  he  said,  “Thanks.  Two  blocks 
south.  I’ll  go  first.” 

They  single-filed  along  the  building  fronts, 
locked  arms  while  they  crossed  two  streets. 
Then  Joe  said,  “Stick  close,  now.  We  go 
back  the  areaway  between  the  second  and 
third  buildings  from  the  corner.  Keep  your 
hand  on  my  shoulder.” 

Back  in  the  areaway,  Joe  found  a door 
and  knocked — three  times  and  then  twice.  It 
opened  and  light  blinded  them  momentarily. 
A man  at  the  door  lowered  a sawed-off  shot- 
gun and  said  “Hi,  Joe,”  and  they  went  in. 

Four  men  were  sitting  around  a poker 
table.  Joe  said  to  the  man  who  was  putting 
down  the^  shotgun,  “Friend  of  mine  from 


St.  Lou,  Harry.  Got  some  business  with 
Ross.”  He  nodded  at  one  of  the  men  at  the 
table,  a swarthy,  stocky  man  with  cold  eyes 
behind  thick  lenses.  “He’s  got  coinage, 
Ross.” 

Keith  merely  nodded  and,  without  speak- 
ing, put  the  coins  and  bills  on  the  table  in 
front  of  the  stocky  man. 

Ross  examined  each  one  carefully,  and 
then  looked  up.  “Four  grand,”  he  said. 

“Five,”  Keith  said.  “They’re  worth  ten.” 

Ross  shook  his  head.  Keith  felt  a touch 
on  his  arm.  Behind  him,  Joe  said,  “I  should 
have  told  you.  Ross  is  one-price.  If  he  of- 
fers you  four  grand,  he  won’t  give  you  four 
thousand  and  one.  You  take  it  or  leave  it.” 

“And  if  I leave  it?”  Keith  asked  over  his 
shoulder. 

“1  know  a couple  more  guys.  But  I’m  not 
sure  we  can  find  ’em  tonight.  And  I doubt 
if  they’d  do  better  than  Ross.” 

Keith  nodded.  “Okay,”  he  said,  “four 
grand,  if  it’s  cash  and  you’ve  got  it  with 

ft 

yotL 

“I  got  it  with  me.”  Ross  pulled  out  a 
bulging  wallet  and  counted  out  two  thousand- 
credit  notes  and  twenty  hundreds.  He  folded 
Keith’s  coins  carefully  inside  the  bills  again 
and  put  them  in  his  vest  pocket. 

“Sit  in  a while  on  the  game?” 

“Thanks,  no,”  Keith  said.  Counting  the 
money,  he  glanced  at  Joe,  who  almost  im- 
perceptibly shook  his  head  to  indicate  he 
didn’t  want  to  take  his  cut  here. 

The  man  who’d  let  them  in  picked  up  the 
shotgun  again  before  he  opened  the  door  to 
let  them  out. 

Outside,  in  the  blackness  again,  they 
moved  out  of  earshot  of  the  door  and  then 
Joe  said,  “A  fifth  of  four  thousand’s  eight 
hundred.  Want  me  to  light  a match  so  you 
can  count  it?” 

“Okay — unless  you  know  somewhere  we 
can  have  a drink  and  talk  a few  minutes. 
We  might  do  some  more  business.” 

“An  idea,”  Joe  said.  “A  little  farther 
south  in  this  same  block.  I could  use  a 
snort  of  moonjuice.” 

Again  Joe  led  the  way  and  again  he  led 
back  into  an  areaway  and  knocked  measured 
knocks  on  a door.  Again  light  blinded  them 
momentarily,  and  then  they  were  in  the 
back  room  of  a tavern.  There  were  a few 
others  there  ahead  of  them,  not  many.  It 
was  still,  Keith  reflected,  comparatively  early 
in  the  evening. 

They  took  a table  and  Joe  ordered  rnotm- 


WHAT  MAD 

juice.  Keith  nodded  that  he’d  take  the  same. 
While  the  aproned  bartender  was  bringing 
them  from  the  front  Keith  counted  out  eight 
hundred-credit  notes  and  passed  them  across 
to  Joe. 

Joe  nodded  and  shoved  his  hat  back  on 
his  head.  “You’re  a right  guy,”  he  said. 
“Hope  we  can  do  more  business.  But  you’re 
a fool.” 

“For  what?  Giving  you  back  your  rod, 
back  there?” 

“Yeah.  Well — maybe  you  weren’t.  If  you 
hadn’t  done  that.  I’d  probably  have  taken 
you.  If  I’d  given  the  signal  back  there  at 
the  game  you  wouldn’t  have  lasted — ” 

E BROKE  off  as  the  bartender  came 
back  with  two  shot  glasses  of  trans- 
parent fluid.  “On  me,”  Joe  said,  and  put 
down  one  of  the  bills  Keith  had  just  given 
him.  He  raised  his  glass,  “Death  to  the 
Arcs.” 

Keith  touched  glasses,  but  took  a cautious 
sip  of  his  first.  He’d  wondered  whether 
“moonjuice”  was  a nickname  for  some  drink 
he  already  knew,  or  whether  it  was  as 
exotic  as  it  sounded. 

It  wasn’t  like  anything  he’d  ever  dreamed 
of,  let  alone  tasted.  It  was  thick,  almost 
syrupy,  but  it  wasn’t  sweet.  And,  para- 
doxically, it  was  cool  and  hot  at  the  same 
time.  It  left  a cool  taste  in  his  mouth  at  the 
same  time  it  burned  a passage  down  his 
gullet. 

He  saw  that  Joe  had  only  sipped  his,  so 
he  didn’t  down  it. 

“The  real  stuff,”  Joe  said.  “Got  much  of 
it  out  west?” 

“Some.  Not  much.” 

“How  are  things  out  there?” 

“Fair,”  Keith  said.  He  wished  that  he 
could  talk  more,  but  there  was  always  the 
risk  of  saying  something  wrong.  He’d  have 
to  appear  taciturn. 

“Where  are  you  staying  here?”  Joe  asked, 
after  another  sip. 

“Nowhere  yet.  Just  blew  in.  Should  have 
holed  in  before  the  mist-out,  but  I — had 
something  to  do.” 

“I  can  take  you  to  a place.  Whenever 
you’re  ready.  The  evening’s  a pup.” 

Keith  nodded.  They  finished  their  drinks 
and  Keith  ordered  a second  round.  What- 
ever moonjuice  was  he  liked  rL  It  seemed 
to  clear  his  head  rather  than  otherwise.  He 
wished  he  could  ask  questions  about  it  but  of 
course  he  couldn’t.  This  was  the  last  one. 


UNIVERSE  59 

though,  he  decided.  The  stuff  might  be 
tongue-loosening  and  he  couldn’t  risk  that. 

After  a sip  from  the  second  glass  of  it,  he 
leaned  forward  across  the  table.  “Joe,”  he 
asked,  “where  can  I find  an  ex-space  pilot 
who’d  like  to  make  a thousand  credits  on  the 
side?” 

Joe’s  eyes  narrowed  a little.  “You  kid- 
ding?” 

That  meant  it  had  been  a bad  question 
but  Keith  couldn’t  see  why.  Anyway,  he 
might  as  well  go  ahead  now.  There  were 
only  half  a dozen  people  in  the  place;  he 
might  be  able  to  shoot  his  way  out,  even  if  he 
gave  himself  away. 

“Why  should  I be  kidding?”  he  de- 
manded. 

To  his  relief,  Joe  grinned.  He  jerked  a 
thumb  at  his  lapel.  Following  the  gesture, 
Keith  noticed  an  emblem  there,  about  the 
size  of  and  rather  similar  to  the  ruptured 
duck  he  himself  had  worn  for  a while. 

“Oh,”  he  said  and  moved  his  hand  away 
from  the  pocket  with  the  automatic  in  it; 
he  hadn’t  made  a major  boner  after  all. 
“Didn’t  notice  it,  Joe.  How  long  you  been 
out?” 

“Five  years.  Based  out  of  Kapi,  Mars. 
Glad  I wasn’t  there  a few  days  ago.”  He 
shook  his  head  slowly.  “Guess  there  isn’t 
much  left  of  Kapi.” 

“We’ll  get  back  at  them  for  that,”  Keith 
said. 

“Maybe.” 

Keith  said,  “You  sound  pessimistic.” 

Joe  lighted  a cigarette,  slowly.  He  said, 
“There’s  a showdown  coming.  A big  one. 
Oh,  I don’t  know  anything  except  what  I 
read  between  the  lines  but  when  you’ve  been 
out  there  you  get  the  feel  of  things.  There’s 
a full  scale  attack  coming — I don’t  know 
which,  us  or  them.  But  one  way  or  the 
other  it  isn’t  going  to  last  forever.” 

Keith  nodded  gravely.  He  Vemembered 
he’d  better  stick  to  the  point  and  talk  as  lit- 
tle as  necessary.  He  couldn’t  discuss  the  war 
very  intelligently,  so  he’d  better  skip  it.  He 
asked,  “Been  to  the  Moon  recently?” 

“Year  ago.”  Joe’s  lips  twisted.  “Hadn’t 
started  mist-outing  then,  yet.  Thought  I 
could  make  an  honest  living  like  a chump. 
Piloted  a rich  guy  there  in  his  own  boat. 
What  a brawl  that  was.” 

“Bad?” 

“Six  of  ’em  in  the  party,  and  drunk  as 
lords.  A six-year-old  kid  could  peelot  one 
of  those  Ehrling  jobs,  but  none  of  ’em  was 


STARTUNG  STORIES 


GO 


sober  enough  to  do  it.  I was  driving  a cab, 
picked  ’em  up  one  afternoon  on  Times 
Square  and  drove  ’em  over  to  Jersey  to  his 
private  port  and  he  offered  me  a thousand 
to  take  ’em  there. 

“I  hadn’t  been  off  Earth  in  two  years  and 
I just  abandoned  my  cab  and  took  ’em.  We 
went  to  Habcrul  and  stayed  a week.”  He 
shook  his  head  sadly.  “My  grand  lasted 
less  than  a day,  but  they  kept  me  with 
them.” 

Keith  asked,  “Those  Ehrlings  much  dif- 
ferent from  the  hot  jobs?” 

Joe  laughed.  “Same  difference  as  between 
a kiddy  car  and  a midget  racer.  All  visual. 
Direct  sight  on  your  objective,  push  the 
button.  Spread  your  wings  and  coast  in. 
Complicated  as  drinking  moon  juice.  Have 
another?” 

“Thanks,  no.  Let’s  talk  business.  Want 
to  make  a thousand,  Joe  ? I want  to  get  to  the 
moon.” 

Joe  shrugged.  “Why  pay  a thousand,  pal? 
Every  hour  on  the  hour  from  LaGuardia. 
Ninety  credits  round  trip.” 

Keith  leaned  forward.  “Can’t  Joe.  I’m 
hot — dodgers  out  from  St.  Lou  and  they’ll 
be  watching  all  the  ports.  Besides,  some  St. 
Lou  friends  of  mine  might  be  expecting 
me  there.  I’d  just  as  soon  walk  in  their 
back  door.” 

“That  way,”  said  Joe,  reflectively.  “But 
— pal,  for  a thousand  credits  do  you  expect 
me  to  steal  a private  boat  and  take  you 
there?” 

“No.  I want  you  to  help  me  steal  a boat 
and  show  me  how  to  run  it.  You  don’t  have 
to  go  along.  How  long  would  it  take  you 
to  show  me  the  controls?” 

“Half  an  hour.  But  swiping  a boat,  pal 
— that  isn’t  peanuts  if  we’re  caught.  It’s 
ten  years  on  Venus.”  His  eyelids  dropped  a 
little  and  he  stroked  the  back  of  one  hand 
with  the  palm  of  the  other.  “I  been  to  Venus 
once.  I don’t  want  to  go  back.” 

Keith  made  a rapid  calculation.  He  said, 
“Three  thousand  credits,  Joe.” 

Joe  sighed.  “It’s  a deal.  When  you  want 
to  go?” 

“Tonight,”  Keith  said. 

Maybe  it  was  the  moon  juice,  maybe  it 
was  his  years  of  having  read  science-fiction, 
maybe  it  was  just  that  he  was  human,  but 
there  was  a sudden  wild  elation  in  him.  The 
Moon ! 

And  the  other  word  that  rounded  out  the 
magic  of  it.  He  said  it  again.  “Tonight!” 


CHAPTER  XIII 
The  Song  of  the  Spheres 


OE  sighed  again.  “That’s  bad,”  he 
said.  “But  if  it’s  got  to  be  tonight,  then 
it’s  got  to  be  tonight.  It’ll  be  tougher  get- 
ting out  of  town  from  under  the  mist-out 
than  it  will  be  to  swipe  the  boat.  That  means 
I got  to  swipe  a car  too.” 

“You  can  though?” 

“Oh  sure.  But  we’ll  have  to  crawl  in  it, 
not  much  faster  than  walking.  The  mist-out 
doesn’t  taper  off  till  three  or  four  miles  into 
Jersey  either.  Take  us  a good  three  hours 
to  get  that  far.” 

“Sounds  like  pretty  good  time  to  me,” 
• Keith  said. 

“Aren’t  many  guys  could  do  it,”  Joe 
said  modestly.  “You  were  lucky  you  picked 
me.  I’ll  show  you  a trick  not  many  know — 
how  to  navigate  a car  by  dead  reckoning  and 
a compass.  What  time  is  it?” 

“A  little  after  nine.” 

“We  can  get  a car  in  half  an  hour  or  less. 
We’ll  be  out  of  the  mist-out  by  one  then  and 
the  port  we’ll  go  to  is  about  thirty  miles  into 
Jersey  but  we’ll  be  in  the  open  then.  I’ll  have 
you  there  by  two  o’clock.”  - 

“The  private  port  of  this  rich  guy  you 
mentioned  ?” 

“Yeah.  He’s  got  two.  One’s  a little  two- 
place  job — that’ll  be  best  for  you  if  it’s  in. 
If  it  isn’t  you’ll  have  to  take  the  big  one,  the 
one  we  made  that  trip  I told  you  about  in. 
Guess  they’ll  both  be  there,  come  to  think  of 
it.  Read  in  the  paper  he’s  under  fire  from  a 
congressional  committee,  so  he’ll  stick  to 
Earth  for  a while.  He  makes  rajiks.” 

“Oh,”  said  Keith. 

“One  more  moonjuice  and  we’ll  go.” 

“If  it’s  on  me,”  Keith  said. 

He  sipped  it  slowly,  lingeringly.  He  was 
getting  a little  scared  again  in  spite  of  the 
moonjuice.  Thus  far  he’d  been  lucky — but 
he  was  still  in  Manhattan  and  Saturn  was  a 
long  way  off.  Saturn  and  the  space  fleet  and 
Mekky. 

Then  again  they  were  in  the  almost  im- 
penetrable blackness  of  the  mist-out.  Again 
they  went  single-file,  with  Keith  keeping  his 
hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  man  walking 
ahead  of  him  and  Joe  guiding  them  along  the 
buildings  with  an  outstretched  arm. 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


At  the  first  corner  he  stopped.  “Wait 
here.  I can  get  a car  better  by  myself.  I 
know  where.  Stick  right  here  till  you  hear 
me  coming.” 

And  he  was  off  again  into  the  blackness, 
walking  so  silently  that  Keith  couldn’t  hear 
a sound  except,  once,  the  faint  sniffle  that 
had  enabled  him  to  catch  Joe  in  the  first 
place.  That  slight  cold  of  Joe’s  had  been  a 
break,  for  Joe  was  turning  out  to  be  a God- 
send. 

He  couldn’t  keep  much  track  of  time, 
standing  there,  for  he  didn’t  want  to  light 
matches  to  see  his  watch.  But  it  seemed  like 
less  than  a half  hour  before  he  heard  a car 
coming,  inching  along  the  curb,  the  occa- 
sional scrape  of  rubber  against  the  curb- 
stone. 

Keith  waited  until  it  stopped  and  then 
felt  his  way  toward  where  the  sound  had 
last  come  from.  He  felt  the  side  of  a sedan, 
said  Joe’s  name  and  got  an  answering, 
“Yeah.”  He  got  in. 

Joe  said,  “Here’s  the  trick.  You  got  to 
use  the  flashlight.”  He  pressed  one  into 
Keith’s  hand.  “Turn  it  on  and  keep  it  aimed 
at  the  floorboards  of  the  car.  Now  take  this 
chalk  and  draw  a line  parallel  with  the 
wheelbase  of  the  car,  front  to  back,  as 
straight  as  you  can.” 

The  flashlight,  held  within  a foot  of  the 
floor,  let  Keith  do  that  all  right.  “Good,” 
Joe  said.  “Now  here’s  the  compass.  Put  it 
down  by  the  line.  Now  wait  till  I turn  the 
car  south  when  we  get  a block  over,  to  Sixth 
Avenue.  I can  go  that  far  , by  the  seat  of 
my  pants.” 

The  car  inched  forward  and  Keith  turned 
off  the  flashlight.  A few  minutes  later  Joe 
stopped  the  car.  “Get  out  and  catch  a house 
number,”  he  said.  “We  ought  to  be  close 
to  Sixth.” 

Keith  got  out  and  fell  over  the  curb.  He 
got  up  and  groped  his  way  to  the  line  of 
building  fronts.  A minute  later  he  was  back 
in  the  car.  “Just  overshot  it,”  he  said.  “Back 
up  the  width  of  one  building  and  then  head 
south.” 

Joe  did,  then  drove  ahead  a little  till  they 
were  out  of  the  intersection. 

“Now  the  flashlight  again,”  he  said. 
“From  here  on  we  can  make  ten  miles  an 
hour.  Look,  that’s  the  line  of  direction  of 
the  car,  see?  Here’s  the  compass.  Now 
Sixth  Avenue  runs  about  southeast  by  south 
— all  the  straight  streets  do.  Turns  just  a 
trifle  more  east  at  Minetta  Place  and  then 


61 

goes  straight  again  till  we  get  to  Spring 
Street. 

“There  we  take  that  right  into  the  tunnel. 
Now  you  keep  the  flashlight  on  that  line  and 
the  compass  and  keep  me  going  straight.  Pll 
watch  the  speedometer  and  check  distances. 
We  can  go  ten  miles  an  hour.” 

“What  if  we -hit  something?” 

“Won’t  kill  us  at  ten  an  hour.  If  we  ruin 
the  car  we’ll  have  to  swipe  another.  We’ll 
waver  from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the 
other,  but  if  you  keep  close  watch  on  that 
compass,  we  shouldn’t  scrape  curbing  often- 
er  than  every  few  blocks — and  whenever  we 
do,  we  realign  ourselves.  Ready?  Here  we 
go.” 

Joe  was  a skillful  pilot,  it  turned  out,  and 
knew  the  streets  and  directions  beautifully. 
They  scraped  rubber  against  the  curb  only 
twice  before  they  reached  Spring  Street  and 
only  twice,  on  the  Sixth  Avenue  leg  of  the 
trip,  did  he  have  Keith  get  out  and  check 
house  numbers. 

®NCE,  in  the  Holland  Tunnel  Keith 
heard  another  car  go  by  them,  head- 
ing in  from  Jersey  but  they  were  lucky  and 
didn’t  even  scrape  fenders. 

Joe  knew  the  Jersey  side  too  and  kept 
them  on  straight  streets  where  they  could 
navigate  with  the  compass.  After  a mile  or 
so  he  turned  the  headlights  on  and  Keith 
could  see  that  they  penetrated  ten  or  twelve 
feet  into  the  blackness. 

Joe  said,  “Okay,  pal.  It  tapers  off  from 
here.  You  can  lay  off  the  compass  now.” 
The  headlights  shot  their  beams  farther 
and  farther  and  before  long  it  was  an  ordi- 
nary night  they  were  driving  through — an 
ordinary  night  with  stars  and  a moon.  Keith 
looked  at  the  Moon  and  took  a deep  breath. 

He  thought,  “This  is  a dream.  I’m  not 
really  going  there.” 

At  one-fifteen  by  Keith’s  watch,  Joe  pulled 
the  car  to  the  side  of  the  road.  He  said, 
“We’re  here,  pal.”  He  turned  off  the  head- 
lights and  took  the  flashlight  from  Keith. 
“Across  these  fields.  It’s  pretty  isolated  back 
there.  We  won’t  even  have  to  be  careful. 
Hope  they  don’t  swipe  the  car  on  me  before 
I get  back  to  it.” 

They  started  across  the  fields.  The  moon- 
light was  so  bright  that  they  didn’t  need  the 
flashlight.  Keith  said,  “How’ll  you  get  back 
into  town  in  the  car  alone?  Can  you  man- 
age the  car  and  the  compass  both?” 

“I  won’t  go  back  to  New  York  tonight. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


62 

I’ll  drive  the  car  into  Trenton  or  somewhere 
and  spend  the  night  there.  They  might  be 
watching  for  that  car  in  the  morning  if  it’s 
reported  early.  So  I’ll  go  in  by  train  and 
let  them  find  it  in  Jersey.  It’s  just  past  these 
trees.” 

He  used  the  flashlight,  going  through  the 
grove,  and  on  the  far  side  of  it  were  a big 
landing  field  and  a big  all-glass  building  like 
a monster  greenhouse.  Through  the  glass, 
Keith  could  see  the  two  space-ships  Joe  had 
told  him  about.  They  looked  more  like  air- 
planes than  space-ships.  The  big  one  was 
about  the  size  of  a transport  plane  and  the 
little  one  not  much  bigger  than  a Piper  Cub. 

Joe  said,  “Wait  here.  I’ll  walk  once 
around  and  be  sure  the  coast’s  clear.” 

When  he  came  back,  he  nodded.  Keith 
held  the  flashlight  while  Joe  opened  the  door 
with  a picklock.  “Good  thing  the  little  job 
will  do.  It’s  foolproof.  I can  show  you  how 
to  run  it  in  ten  or  twenty  minutes.  Know 
anything  at  all  about  space  navigation?” 

“Not  a thing.” 

“Well,  then  it’s  good  you  won’t  want  the 
Ehrling.  It’d  take  me  a while  to  teach  you 
that  one.” 

Keith  was  walking  around  the  smaller 
space-ship.  Now,  at  closer  range,  he  could 
see  it  was  less  like  an  airplane  than  he  had 
thought.  The  wings  were  shorter  and  stub- 
bier. What  had  looked  like  canvas  felt  more 
like  asbestos.  And  there  wasn’t  any  propel- 
ler. 

“Here’s  the  airlock,”  Joe  said.  “Just  turn 
this  handle.  If  you  open  it  in  space  for  any 
reason — and  you’d  better  put  on  a space-suit 
first.  There’s  two  inside  the  ship.  You  got 
to  open  this  valve  first  and  let  the  air  out  of 
the  ship  first.  Then,  after  you’re  back  in, 
you  start  the  airmaker  and  it  builds  up.  I’ll 
show  you  that.  Get  on  in.” 

Keith  sat  at  the  pilot’s  seat  and  Joe,  be- 
side him,  explained  the  controls.  They  were 
simple,  Keith  thought,  much  simpler  than 
those  on  a light  plane. 

“Here’s  the  sighter,”  Joe  was  saying. 
“Just  aim  that  where  you  want  to  go.  And 
these  dials  set  the  distance.  Big  one’s  in 
hundred-thou-mile  units,  next  one  in  thou- 
sand, and  on  down  to  the  little  vernier  in 
feet.  That’s  for  hangaring  of  course.  Now 
for  the  Moon — you  landing  on  this  side  or 
the  far  side?” 

“This  side.” 

“Then  just  sight  on  where  you  want  to 
go,  set  this  dial — the  repulsor — for  ten  miles. 


When  you’re  ready,  push  this  button  and 
you  dematerialize  here  and  materialize  ten 
miles  above  the  moon.  That’s  safe  for  the 
Moon.  Better  allow  twenty  miles  for  Earth, 
thirty  for  Venus,  about  fifteen  for  Mars. 

“Minute  you  materialize  there,  you  start 
falling.  Put  the  nose  in  a steep  glide  and 
let  yourself  fall  and  the  wings  begin  to  take 
hold  as  you  get  down  into  the  atmosphere. 
Glide  in  and  land  her  like  a glider.  That’s 
all.^ 

“If  you’re  going  to  miss  your  place  or 
make  a bad  landing — well,  you’ll  have  your 
finger  on  the  button  and  you  push  it  and 
you  flash  back  ten  miles  high  again  and  start 
over.  That’s  all  there  is  to  it,  pal.  Got  it?” 

“I  guess  so,”  Keith  said.  It  sounded  sim- 
ple enough.  Anyway  he  saw  a clip  on  the 
inside  of  the  airlock  door  with  a book  en- 
titled Manual  of  Instructions  under  it  so  he 
could  pick  up  anything  he’d  missed  or  for- 
gotten to  ask. 

He  took  out  his  billfold  and  counted  out 
the  three  thousand  credits  he’d  promised 
Joe.  It  left  him  less  than  two  hundred  but 
he  probably  wasn’t  going  to  need  any  any- 
way. 

“Okay,  pal,”  Joe  said.  “Thanks — and 
luck.  Look  me  up  sometime  when  you’re 
back.  The  place  we  had  the  moon  juice.” 

After  joe  had  gone,  he  reached  for  the 
manual  of  instructions  and  studied  it 
closely  for  nearly  an  hour. 

It  was  even  simpler  than  he’d  realized. 
You  aimed  at  your  objective  and  guessed 
or  roughly  estimated  the  distance — and  if 
you  were  wrong  it  didn’t  matter  because,  if 
you  were  short,  you  merely  needed  to  press 
the  button  again  and,  if  you  were  over,  it 
didn’t  matter  if  you  had  the  repulsor  set  for 
ten  miles  short  of  the  object,  because  it  would 
stop  you  there. 

Gliding  in  didn’t  seem  any  tougher  than 
making  a dead-stick  landing  in  a light  plane, 
with  the  added  advantage  that  you  could 
flash  back  up  in  nothing  flat  and  start  over 
again  if  it  looked  as  though  your  landing 
weren’t  going  to  be  good. 

He  looked  up  through  the  glass  panel  in 
the  top  of  the  space-ship,  through  the  glass 
roof  of  the  hangar,  through  the  atmosphere 
of  Earth  and  the  nothingness  of  space — at 
the  stars  and  the  Moon. 

Should  he  go  to  the  Moon  first?  There 
was  no  important  reason  for  it.  His  almost 
hopeless  destination — Mekky  and  the  fleet 


WHAT  MAD 

near  -Saturn — wasn’t  g^oing  to^  be  any  more 
accessible  from  there  than  from  here.  But 
he  knew  he  stood  a good  chance  of  never 
getting  to  Mekky  alive  and  he  knew  too  that, 
if  he  did  get  there,  he  was  going  to  try  to 
get  back  to  his  own  world. 

Before  he  died  or  before  he  went  back,  one 
or  the  other,  he  wanted  just  once  to  set  foot 
on  the  Moon.  He’d  skip  the  planets — but, 
just  once,  he  wanted  to  stand  on  ground  that 
wasn’t  that  of  Earth. 

It  wouldn’t  cost  him  much  time,  and  there 
wouldn’t — or  shouldn’t — be  much  risk.  The 
paragraph  on  the  moon  in  the  manual  of  in- 
struction had  told  him  that  the  settlements, 
the  fertile  lands,  were  on  the  far  side,  where 
there  was  water  and  where  the  air  was  thick- 
er. On  the  near  side  were  only  barren  rock 
and  a few  mines. 

He  took  a deep  breath  and  strapped  him- 
self into  the  seat.  He  set  the  dials  for  two 
hundred  and  forty  thousand  miles  and  the 
repulsor  dial  for  ten  miles,  checked  his  aim 
for  dead  center  and  pushed  the  button. 

Nothing  happened,  nothing  at  all.  He  must 
have  forgotten  to  turn  a switch  somewhere. 
He  realized  that  he’d  closed  his  eyes  when 
he’d  pushed  the  button  and  opened  them 
again  to  look  over  the  instrument  panel. 
Nothing  was  wrong. 

Or  was  it?  There  was  something  differ- 
ent, a sensation  of  lightness,  of  falling,  of 
going  down  in  a very  fast  elevator.  He 
looked  upward  through  the  top  panel  and  the 
Moon  wasn’t  there  any  more  but  the  stars 
were  and  they  looked  brighter  and  closer  and 
more  numerous  than  he’d  ever  seen  them. 

But  where  was  the  Moon? 

He  looked  down  through  the  glass  panel 
in  the  floor  and  saw  it  rushing  up  at  him, 
only  miles  away. 

He  caught  his  breath  as  he  set  the  dials 
again,  ready  to  flash  him  back  to  a point 
above  the  atmosphere,  then  took  the  stick 
and  put  his  feet  on  the  pedal  controls.  The 
wings  seemed  to  be  catching  air  now  and 
the  craft  was  at  the  right  slant  to  go  into 
a glide. 

But  it  had  been  too  sudden,  too  unex- 
pected— he  wasn’t  ready.  He  pressed  the 
button  and  again  nothing  happened — appar- 
ently— except  that  suddenly  the  Moon  was  a 
little  farther  away  again. 

This  time  he  waited  it  out,  going  into  a 
glide.  He  kept  his  finger  on  the  button  un- 
til he  cleared  the  edge  of  a crater  and  saw 
he  was  heading  for  a flat  level  plain  on 


UNIVERSE  63 

which  even  a dub  couldn’t  miss  making  a 
good  landing. 

He  made  one,  and  rolled  to  a stop.  Slowly 
he  unstrapped  himself.  He  hesitated  just  a 
moment  with  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the 
airlock,  wondering  if  there  really  was  air 
outside.  But  there  had  to  be.  He’d  glided 
down. 

He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out.  Yes, 
there  was  air,  thin  and  quite  cold,  like  the 
air  atop  a high  mountain  of  Earth.  He 
looked  around,  shivering,  and  was  disap- 
pointed. He  might  have  been  standing  on 
rocky,  barren  land  on  Earth,  with  moun- 
tains in  the  distance.  It  didn’t  look  any  dif- 
ferent. 

It  felt,  different,  though.  He  felt  unbe- 
lievably light.  How  high  were  you  able  to 
jump  on  the  Moon?  He  took  an  experi- 
mental little  hop  that  wouldn’t  have  taken 
him  over  six  inches  high  on  Earth  and 
went  several  feet  into  the  air.  He  came  down 
more  slowly  and  lightly  than  he’d  expected. 
But  doing  it  gave  him  a queasy  feeling  at 
the  pit  of  his  stomach  and  he  didn’t  try  it 
again. 

He  looked  up,  wondering  what  was  wrong 
in  that  direction.  It  looked  like  an  ordinary 
Earth  sky,  except  that  the  sun  was  bright- 
er. But  wasn’t  that  wrong?  Weren’t  you 
supposed  to  be  able  to  see  stars  in  daytime 
from  the  Moon?  Shouldn’t  the  sky,  except 
for  the  bright  ball  of  the  sun,  be  dark? 

But  that  was  because  scientists  thought 
there  wasn’t  any  air  on  the  Moon.  Were 
they  wrong  on  that — back  there  in  his  own 
universe,  too?  Or  was  that  ju.st  another 
difference  between  this  universe  and  his — 
that  the  Moon  of  this  universe  had  air  and 
his  didn’t? 

He  turned  around  slowly,  then  caught  his 
breath  at  sight  of  what  he’d  forgotten  to 
look  for.  The  Earth,  a monster  yellowish 
ball,  hung  there  in  the  sky,  looking  as  the 
moon  looks  when  seen  from  Earth  in  day- 
time but  larger.  And  he  could  see  the  out- 
line of  continents  on  it.  It  looked  like  a big 
globe  of  Earth  hanging  there. 

He  stared  at  it  wonderingly  for  a long 
minute,  until  the  sharp  feel  of  cold  air  in  his 
throat  and  lungs  reminded  him  that  he’d 
freeze  if  he  stood  out  here  much  longer.  It 
must  be  close  to  zero  and  he  was  dressed  for 
summer  in  New  York. 

Regretfully  he  took  his  eyes  off  the  mag- 
nificent sphere  in  the  sky,  then  got  back  into 
the  space-ship  and  closed  the  airlock.  The 


64  STARTLING  STORIES 


air  inside  was  thin  and  cold  now,  too — but 
now  that  the  airlock  door  was  closed  the 
airmaker  unit  and  the  heater  would  bring  it 
back  to  normal  automatically. 

He  strapped  himself  back  into  the  pilot’s 
seat,  thinking,  “Well,  I’ve  been  on  the 
Moon.’’ 

It  hadn’t  thrilled  him  as  much  as  he’d 
thought  and  he  believed  he  knew  why.  It 
was  because— here,  in  this  universe — it 
didn’t  seem  completely  real,  however  real 
this  universe  was.  It  was  too  easy.  Much 
too  easy. 

Yes,  he  knew  now,  definitely,  that  what 
he  wanted  was  to  get  back,  back  to  the  world 
he  was  born  in  and  on  which  he  belonged. 
Maybe  he  was  too  old  to  readjust  himself 
to  something  like  this.  Maybe  if  it  had  hap- 
pened when  he’d  been  seventeen  instead  of 
thirty-one  and  if  he’d  been  heart-free  instead 
of  head-over-heels  in  love,  this  universe 
would  have  been  just  what  the  doctor  or- 
dered. 

But  it  wasn’t  now.  He  wanted  back  and 
there  was  only  one  mind — a mechanical  one 
— that  might  be  able  to  help  him  do  that. 

He  set  the  pointer  at  Earth  and  the  dial 
at  only  a hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
miles,  halfway  between  Earth  and  Moon. 
Out  there  in  space,  he  could  take  his  time 
about  locating  Saturn. 

He  pushed  the  button. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
Monster  from  Arcturus 


He  was  used  to  nothing  happening 
when  he  pressed  that  button.  It  didn’t 
surprise  him  at  all  tliat  suddenly  the  Earth 
was  twice  as  big  as  it  had  been  before.  But 
it  did  surprise  him  that  he  himself  felt  so 
strange. 

It  surprised  him  until  he  realized  that  he 
was  almost  completely  weightless  here. 
What  pull  there  was  pulled  him  away  from 
the  straps  in  the  seat,  toward  Earth  over- 
head. Then  the  ship  itself  must  have  over- 
come its  inertia  and  started  falling  in  that 
direction  and  he  felt  completely  weightless. 

Well,  it  would  take  him  a long  time  to 
fall  a hundred  and  twenty  thousand  miles. 
More  time  than  he  thought  he’d  need. 

He  began,  first  through  one  panel  and  then 


another,  to  scan  the  sky.  It  shouldn’t  be  too 
hard  to  find  Saturn.  Out  here  in  space,  with 
no  atmosphere  to  blunt  vision,  the  stars  were 
monstrous  compared  to  the  way  they  looked 
from  Earth.  Even  on  Earth  rare  people, 
with  gifted  eyesight,  were  said  at  times  to 
be  able  to  distinguish  the  rings  of  Saturn. 
From  here,  in  space,  normal  eyesight  ought 
to  do  it  easily. 

And  he  wouldn’t  have  to  search  the  entire 
sky,  even  though  he  didn’t  know  Saturn’s 
present  position.  He  knew  enough  of  elemen- 
tary astronomy  to  recognize  the  plane  of  the 
ecliptic  and  Saturn  would  be  in  that  plane. 

He’d  have  to  look  along  a line,  not 
throughout  the  whole  sky.  Of  course,  if  Sat- 
urn were  on  the  other  side  of  the  Sun,  he’d 
have  to  try  from  there.  But  from  here  the 
Sun  was  a fiery  ball  in  a black  sky  and  oc- 
. cubed  only  a small  fraction  of  the  line  of 
the  ecliptic. 

It  took  him  a minute  to  get  his  bearings 
becau.se  there  were  so  many  more  stars  here 
than  he  was  used  to  seeing.  They  didn’t 
twinkle,  they  glowed  like  luminous  diamonds 
on  a piece  of  black  velvet.  But  he  found  the 
Dipper  and  then  the  belt  of  Orion  and,  after 
that,  it  was  easy  to  locate  the  constellations 
of  the  zodiac. 

He  followed  it  around,  carefully,  study- 
ing each  celestial  object  near  the  imaginary 
line.  He  got  a little  thrill  out  of  seeing  a 
reddish  disk  that  must  be  Mars,  a reddish 
disk  with  faint  crackly  lines  on  it. 

He  followed  the  line  through  about  thirty 
degrees  and  there  it  was.  The  rings  weren’t 
quite  edge-on  but  they  were  unmistakable. 
And  there  was  only  one  object  in  the  whole 
sky  that  had  rings. 

He  put  the  pointer  on  it  and  reached  for 
the  manual  of  instructions,  in  which  there 
was  a table  of  orbital  distances.  Yes,  there 
it  was — Saturn,  886,779,000.  It  was  in  the 
same  general  direction  from  the  sun  as  Earth 
was  and  that  made  it  easy  to  figure. 

Knock  off  the  93,000.000-odd  miles  of 
Earth’s  distance  from  the  sun,  and  Saturn 
was  793-odd  million  miles  away  from  him. 
And,  if  he  overguessed,  it  wouldn’t  matter 
as  long  as  he  had  his  repulsor  set.  He  set 
the  dials  at  800,000,000  miles,  and  the  re- 
pulsor to  stop  him  a thousand  miles  away 
from  Saturn,  checked  the  pointer  again  and 
pressed  the  button. 

The  beauty  of  the  ringed  planet — and  its 
tremendous  size  from  only  a thousand  miles 
away — made  him  catch  his  breath.  He  hadn’t 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


realized  how  close  a thousand  miles  was  to 
a planet  nearly  74,000  miles  in  diameter, 
about  nine  times  the  diameter  of  the  Earth. 
It  was  a full  minute  before  he  could  look 
away  from  it  and  start  searching  the  sky 
for  the  Earth  fleet,  the  war  fleet. 

He  didn’t  find  it — it  found  him.  A voice 
startled  him  by  saying,  “Do  not  move.”  It 
was  a physical,  actual  voice,  not  one  inside 
his  head  as  Mekky’s  voice  had  been.  This 
wasn’t  Mekky.  The  voice  said,  “What  are 
you  doing  here?  Pleasure  craft  are  forbid- 
den outside  the  orbit  of  Mars.” 

He  located  it  this  time  while  the  voice  was 
speaking.  It  came  out  of  a tiny  speaker  set 
into  the  instrument  panel.  He  hadn’t  no- 
ticed it  before.  Alongside  it  was  what  looked 
like  a pick-up  mike. 

Keith  said,  “I  want  to  see  Mekky.  It’s 
important.”  While  he  spoke  he  looked  out 
through  the  vision  panels  and  saw  them — 
half  a dozen  oblong  objects  that  globed  him 
in  at  close  range,  occulting  big  chunks  of  the 
sky.  He  couldn’t  guess  how  big  they  were 
without  knowing  their  distance  nor  their  dis- 
tance without  knowing  their  size. 

The  voice  said  sternly,  “Under  no  cir- 
cumstances are  civilians  or  occupants  of  civil- 
ian craft  allowed  to  approach  the  fleet.  You 
will  be  escorted  back  to  Earth  and  turned 
over  to  the  authorities  for  punishment.  Do 
not  attempt  to  touch  your  controls.  Your 
ship  is  pinned.  Have  you  a space-suit  on?” 
“No,”  said  Keith.  “But  this  is  important. 
Does  Mekky  know  I’m  here?  I must  see 
him.” 

“Mekky  knows  you  are  here.  He  ordered 
us  to  englobe  and  capture  you.  Put  on  a 
space-suit  so  you  can  let  the  air  out  of  your 
ship  and  open  the  lock.  One  of  us  will  enter 
and  take  over  operation  of  your  ship.” 

“All  right,”  Keith  said,  desperately,  “but 
does  Mekky — ” 

The  voice  was  different  this  time.  It 
spoke  both  ways  at  once,  strangely,  in- 
side his  head  and  through  the  speaker  on  the 
instrument  panel.  It  was  Mek%’s  voice.  It 
said,  “Keith  Winton,  I told  you  not  to  come 
here.” 

Keith  answered  aloud.  If  the  voice  had 
come  through  the  radio  too,  then  Mekky 
was  dealing  the  others  in  on  the  conversa- 
tion and  he  might  as  well. 

He  said,  “I  had  to  come  now  or  never, 
Mekky.  The  plans  went  wrong.  I was  being 
hunted  down  as  a spy  and  you’re  the  only 


65 

one  who  knows  I’m  not.  I wouldn’t  have 
lived  a day  longer  on  Earth.” 

“What  is  that  to  me?  What  is  one  lie 
beside  the  defense  of  a solar  system?” 

“That’s  why,”  said  Keith,  trying  to  sound 
confident.  “You  know,  from  having  studied 
my  surface  thoughts,  that  I’m  from  another 
universe.  You’ve  got  a lot  of  things  here  in 
the  way  of  science  that  we  can’t  touch  there. 
Space-travel  and — and  you,  yourself.  But 
how  do  you  know  we  haven’t  got  some  things 
you’ve  missed  ? 

“You’re  in  a jam  here.  You’re  afraid  of 
the  next  Arc  attack.  How  do  you  know, 
without  searching  deeply  into  my  mind,  that 
you  won’t  find  something  there  that  may  be 
worth  a lot  more  than  the  little  time  you’d 
have  to  give  me?” 

A calm  but  youthful  voice  said,  “Maybe 
he’s  got  something  there,  Mekky.  Why  not 
bring  him  over  to  the  fleet?  What  have  we 
got  to  lose?”  It  was  a youthful  yet  deep 
voice — there  were  authority  and  confidence 
in  it. 

Keith  had  never  heard  it  before  but  he 
knew  somehow  that  it  must  be  Dopelle’s 
voice — Dopelle,  with  whom  Betty  Hadley, 
his  Betty  Hadley,  was  so  hopelessly  in  love. 

The  great  Dopelle  who  held  this  universe — 
except  for  the  Arcturians — in  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  The  mighty  Dopelle.  “Damn  him,” 
Keith  thought. 

Mekky’s  voice  again  said,  “All  right. 
Bring  him  to  the  fleet.  To  the  flagship.” 

There  was  dull  knocking  on  the  outside  of 
the  airlock.  Keith  unstrapped  himself  quick- 
ly from  the  pilot’s  seat.  He  said,  “Just  a 
minute.  Getting  a space-suit  on.” 

It  was  thick  and  awkward  to  handle  but 
there  wasn’t  anything  difficult  about  putting 
it  on.  The  helmet  clicked  automatically  into 
place  against  the  neck-ring.  He  opened  the 
valve  in  the  airlock  that  would  let  the  air 
inside  the  ship  outside.  He  heard  it  hiss. 
When  it  quit  hissing  in  a few  seconds  he 
opened  the  airlock. 

A man  wearing  a space-suit  bigger  and 
more  cumbersome  than  his  came  in.  Without 
speaking  he  sat  down  in  the  pilot’s  seat  and 
began  to  work  the  vernier  controls.  He  stood 
up  again  and  motioned  to  the  airlock.  Keith 
nodded  and  opened  it ; they  were  up  against, 
almost  touching,  the  side  of  a big  ship.  From 
so  close,  he  couldn’t  tell  how  big  it  was. 

An  airlock  stood  open  and  Keith  stepped 
across  into  the  closed  compartment  to  which 
it  led.  Of  course,  he  realized,  a ship  this  size  ® 


66  STARTLING  STORIES 


couldn’t  exhaust  all  its  air  merely  to  let 
someone  in  at  the  airlocks.  There’d  be  an 
intermediate  chamber. 

The  outer  door  swung  shut.  Air  hissed. 
The  inner  door  swung  open.  A tall,  very 
handsome  young  man  with  black  hair  and 
flashing  black  eyes  stood  there,  just  inside 
the  inner  door. 

He  stepped  forward  quickly  and  helped 
Keith  take  off  the  helmet.  He  said,  “Fm 
Dopelle,  and  you’re  this  Winton  or  Win- 
ston Mekky  told  me  about.  Hurry  up  and 
get  that  suit  off.”  His  voice  was  courageous, 
but  worried.  "We’re  in  a jam.  I hope  you’ve 
got  something  we  can  use.  Otherwise — ” 

Slipping  out  of  the  space-suit,  Keith  looked 
around  him.  The  ship  was  big  all  right-^the 
room  he  was  in  must  be  the  main  chamber. 
It  was  a hundred  feet  long  by  thirty  or  thirty- 
five  wide.  There  were  a lot  of  men  in  it, 
mostly  working  down  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  in  w’hat  looked  like  a completely 
equipped  experimental  laboratory. 

His  eyes  w'ent  back  to  Dopelle.  There, 
just  above  Dopelle’s  head,  hung  Mekky,  the 
basketball-sized  sphere  that  was  a mechanical 
brain. 

Inside  his  head  came  Mekky’s  voice.  ‘"It 
could  be,  Keith  Winton.  Something  about 
a potentiomotor.  A man  named  Burton. 
Whatever  it  is,  it’s  not  known  here.  Do  you 
know  the  details,  the  wiring  diagram? 

“Don’t  bother  answering,  just  think.  Yes, 
you’ve  seen  diagram  and  formula.  You  don’t 
know  them  consciously  but  they’re  there  in 
your  subconscious.  I think  I can  get  to  them 
under  light  hypnosis.  You  are  willing?” 

“Yes,  of  course,”  Keith  said.  “What’s 
the  score?” 

“The  score  is  this,”  said  Dopelle,  answer- 
ing for  Mekky.  “The  Arcs  are  going  to  at- 
tack soon.  We  don’t  know  exactly  when  but 
it  may  be  within,  hours.  And  they’ve  got 
something  new.  We  don’t  know  how  to  buck 
it  yet.  It’s  a single  ship,  not  a fleet — but 
their  whole  effort  for  years  has  gone  into  it. 
That’s  good,  in  one  way.  If  we  can  destroy 
it  the  way  will  be  clear  for  us  to  take  the 
fleet  to  Arcturus  and  end  the  war.  But — ” 

“But  what?”  Keith  asked.  “Is  it  too  big 
for  you  to  handle?” 

POPELLE  waved  a hand  impatiently. 

“Size  doesn’t  matter,  although  it’s 
really  a monster — ten  thousand  feet,  ten 
times  the  biggest  thing  we’ve  ever  tried  to 
build.  But  it’s  coated  with  a new  metal,  im- 


pervious to  anything  we  know.  We  can 
A-bomb  if  all  day  and  not  scratch  the  finish.” 

Keith  nodded.  “We  had  that  stuff,  too — 
in  our  science-fiction  magazines.”  He  got 
the  space-suit  off  as  he  finished  speaking.  “I 
used  to  edit  one.” 

Dopelle’s  face  lighted  up.  It  was  a nice 
face.  Keith  decided  that— Betty  Hadley  re- 
gardless— he  liked  Dopelle.  “I  used  to  read 
them,”  Dopelle  said,  “when  I was  younger. 
Of  course  now — ” 

But  something  in  the  expression  on  Do- 
pelle’s face  registered.  He’d  seen  a face  like 
it  before,  back — no,  he  hadn’t  seen  the  face, 
either.  Just  a photograph  of  it.  A photo- 
graph of  a younger  and  far  less  handsome 
edition.  Dopelle  was — 

“Joe  Doppelberg !”  Keith  said.  His  mouth 
fell  open. 

“What?”  Dopelle’s  eyes  were  puzzled 
now.  “What  do  you  mean?” 

“I  know  you  now,”  Keith  said.  “I’ve  got 
a clue  to  this  set-up.  You’re  Joe  Doppelberg, 
a science-fiction  fan  of — of  back  there  where 
I came  from.  Only  you’re  older  than  he— 
and  a thousand  times  handsomer  and  more 
intelligent  than  he  and — you’ve  got  every- 
thing he  wanted. 

“You’re  what  he  would  have  dreamed  him- 
self to  be.  He — you — used  to  write  me  long 
letters,  full  of  corny  humor,  to  my  Rocketalk 
Department,  and  you  called  me  Rocky  and 
you  didn’t  like  our  Bems,  and — ” 

He  broke  off  and  his  mouth  dropped  open 
again. 

Dopelle  said,  “Mekky,  he’s  crazy.  You 
won’t  get  anything  out  of  him.  He’s  stark 
crazy.” 

“No,”  Mekky’s  voice  said.  “He  isn’t 
crazy.  He’s  wrong  of  course  but  he  isn’t 
crazy.  I can  follow  his  thought  processes 
and  see  why  he  thinks  that.  I can  straighten 
him  out  on  it.  I see  the  whole  thing  now — 
except  the  formula  and  diagram  we  need. 

“Come,  Keith  Winton,  you  must  go  under 
light  hypnosis  so  I can  get  from  your  deep 
subconscious  what  I need.  Then  I’ll  tell  you 
everything  you  want  to  know.” 

“How'  to  get  back?” 

“Possibly.  I’m  not  sure  of  that.  But  you 
will  be  doing  a tremendous  service.  You 
may  be  the  instrument  of  saving  Earth  from 
Arcturus — and  Earth  here  is  just  as  real 
as  the  one  you  know.  You’re  iK»f  living  in 
the  dream  of  one  of  your  science-fiction  fans. 
I assure  you  of  that. 

“And  that  you  may  know  what  you’re 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


saving  Earth  from  would  you  care  to  see  an 
Arcturian  ?” 

“Would  I — why  sure.  Why  not?” 

“Follow.” 

The  sphere  that  was  Mekky  floated  across 
the  room,  and  Keith  followed.  The  voice  was 
saying  inside  his  head,  “This  is  one  we  cap- 
tured in  a scouting  ship.  The  first  we  cap- 
tured alive  since  the  early  days  of  the  war. 
It  was  from  its  mind — if  you  can  call  it  a 
mind — that  I learned  of  the  monster  ship 
that  is  to  come,  and  of  the  new  armament  it 
will  have.  After  you  see  it — ” 

A door  swung  open,  revealing  a steel- 
barred  door  just  inside  it  and  a cell  beyond 
the  steel  bars.  A light  flashed  on  within  the 
cell. 

“That,"  said  the  voice  of  Mekky,  “is  an 
Arcturian.  ” 

Keith  stepped  closer  to  look  through  the 
bars  and  then  he  stepped  back  even  more 
quickly.  He  felt  as  though  he  were  going 
to  be  sick  at  his  stomach.  He  closed  his  eyes 
and  swayed  dizzily.  Horror  and  nausea  al- 
most blanked  him  out. 

The  steel  door  swung  shut. 

“That,”  said  Mekky,  “is  an  Arcturian  in 
its  own  body.  Maybe  now  you  understand 
why  Arcturian  spies  are  shot  on  suspicion.” 

Keith  cleared  his  throat.  “Yes,”  he  said. 

“That  is  what  will  destroy  the  human  race 
and  populate  the  Solar  System,  unless  we 
can  destroy  the  monster  ship.  And  time  is 
short.  Come,  Keith  Winton.” 


CHAPTER  XV 
Flashback 


Keith  winton  felt  a little  dazed. 

He  felt  as  though  he’d  been  drunk  and 
were  just  sobering  up,  as  though  he’d  been 
under  ether  and  were  just  coming  out.  Yet 
it  wasn’t  quite  like  that  either.  Though  he 
felt  physically  lethargic  his  mind  was  clear, 
crystalline  in  fact.  It  was  just  that  too  much 
strong  meat  was  being  fed  to  it  all  at  once. 
It  was  having  difficulty  absorbing  more. 

He  sat  on  a little  steel-railed  balcony, 
looking  out  over  the  big  room  of  Dopelle’s 
space-ship,  watching  Dopelle  and  a varying 
number  of  other  workmen  swiftly  and  effi- 
ciently making  something  that  looked  like  a 
very  large  and  quite  modified  edition  of 


67 

something  he’d  seen  a picture  of  in  a science 
magazine  back  on  Earth,  his  own  Earth.  It 
was  a Burton  potentiomotor. 

The  sphere  that  was  Mekky  floated  above 
the  operation,  fifty  feet  away  from  Keith,  but 
it  was  talking  to  Keith,  in  Keith’s  mind. 
Distance  didn’t  make  any  difference,  it 
seemed,  to  Mekky.  And  Keith  had  a hunch 
that  Mekky  was  carrying  on  more  than  one 
of  those  telepathic  conversations  at  the  same 
time,  that  Mekky  was  directing  Dopelle  and 
the  workmen  even  while  he  talked  to  Keith. 

“You  find  it  difficult  to  grasp,  of  course,” 
Mekky’s  voice  was  saying,  “infinity  is,  in 
fact,  impossible  fully  to  grasp.  Yet  there  are 
infinite  universes.” 

“But  where?”  Keith’s  mind  asked.  “In 
parallel  dimensions  or  what?” 

“Dimension  is  merely  an  attribute  of  a uni- 
verse,” Mekky  said,  “having  validity  only 
within  that  particular  universe.  From  other- 
where a universe — spatially  infinite  in  itself — 
is  but  a point. 

“There  are  an  infinite  number  of  points  on 
the  head  of  a pin.  There  are  as  many  points 
on  the  head  of  a pin  as  in  an  infinite  universe 
or  an  infinity  of  infinite  universes.  And  in- 
finity to  the  infinite  power  is  still  only  in- 
finity. 

“There  are,  then,  an  infinite  number  of 
co-existent  universes — including  the  one  you 
came  from  and  this  one.  But  do  you  con- 
ceive what  infinity  means,  Keith  Winton?” 

“Well — yes  and  no.” 

“It  means  that,  out  of  infinity,  all  con- 
ceivable universes  exist.  There  is,  for  in- 
stance, a universe  in  which  this  exact  scene 
is  being  repeated  except  that  you — or  the 
equivalent  of  you — are  wearing  brown  shoes 
instead  of  black  ones. 

“There  are  an  infinite  number  of  permu- 
tations of  that  variation,  such  as  one  in  which 
you  have  a slight  scratch  on  your  left  fore- 
finger and  one  in  which  you  have  a dull 
headache  and — ” 

“But  they  are  all  me?" 

“No,  none  of  them  is  you.  I should  not 
have  used  that  pronoun.  They  are  separate 
individual  entities — just  as  the  Keith  Win- 
ton of  this  universe  is  a separate  entity  from 
you.  In  this  particular  variation,  there  is  a 
wide  physical  difference — no  resemblance,  in 
fact. 

“But  you  and  your  prototype  here  had 
roughly  the  same  history.  And,  as  you  found 
out  to  your  sorrow,  you  wrote  the  same 
stories  once.  And  there  are  similarities  be- 


STARTLING  STORIES 


68 

tween  my  master  Dopelle  here  and  a science- 
fiction  fan  named  Doppelberg  in  your  uni- 
verse but  they  are  not  the  same  person.” 

Keith  thought  slowly,  “If  there  are  in- 
finite universes,  then  all  possible  combina- 
tions must  exist.  Then,  somewhere,  every- 
thing  must  he  true.  I mean,  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  write  a fiction  story,  because  no 
matter  how  wild  it  sounds  that  very  thing 
must  be  happening  somewhere.  Is  that 
true?” 

“Of  course  it’s  true.  There  is  a universe 
in  which  Huckleberry  Finn  is  a real  person, 
doing  the  exact  things  Mark  Twain  described 
him  as  doing.  There  are,  in  fact,  an  infinite 
number  of  universes  in  which  a Huckleberry 
Finn  is  doing  every  possible  variation  of 
what  Mark  Twain  might  have  described  him 
as  doing.  No  matter  what  variation,  major 
or  minor,  Mark  Twain  might  have  made  in 
the  writing  of  that  book  it  would  have  been 
true.” 

Keith  Winton’s  mind  staggered  a little.  He 
said,  “There  are  an  infinite  number  of  uni- 
verses in  which  we — or  our  equivalents — are 
making  Burton  outfits  to  defeat  attacking 
Arcturians  ? And  in  some  of  them  we’ll  suc- 
ceed and  in  others  we’ll  fail?” 

“Of  course.  And  there  are  an  infinite 
number  of  universes  in  which  we  don’t  exist 
at  all.  In  which  the  human  race  does  not 
exist.  There  are  an  infinite  number  of  uni- 
verses in  which  flowers  are  the  predominant 
form  of  life.  Infinite  universes  in  which — 
in  which  the  states  of  existence  are  such  that 
we  have  no  words  to  describe  them.  All  pos- 
sible combinations  must  exist  in  infinity. 

“There  are  an  infinite  number  of  uni- 
verses in  which  you’re  going  to  die  in  the 
next  half  hour,  piloting  a rocket  against  the 
monster  ship  from  Arcturus.” 

“What?” 

“Of  course.  You’re  going  to  ask  to.  It 
may  get  you  back  to  your  own  universe.  You 
want  to  get  there.  I can  see  it  in  your  mind. 
Don’t  assk  me  if  you  will  succeed  in  this  par- 
ticular universe.  I cannot  read  the  future.” 

^ GAIN  Keith  shook  his  head.  There 
jLm  were  still  a miliion  questions  though 
he  could  figure  the  answers  to  some  of  them 
himself.  But  he  asked  another  one  first. 

“Explain  again,  please,  what  happened. 
How  I got  here.” 

“The  moon  rocket  from  your  Earth  must 
have  fallen  back  and  exploded — the  Burton 
effect,  that  is.  It  isn’t  exactly  an  explosion — 


when  it  struck  Earth  on  L.  A.  Borden’s 
estate  a few  yards  from  you.  There  are 
peculiar  properties  to  such  an  electrical  flash. 
Burton  didn’t  know  what  he  had.  Anyone 
caught  in  it  directly  is  not  killed.  He’s 
knocked  into  another  universe.” 

“How  can  you  know  that  if  the  Burton 
effect  is  new  here?” 

“Partly  by  deduction  from  what  happened 
to  you,  partly  by  analysis — deeper  than  was 
given  it  on  your  Earth — of  the  Burton  for- 
mula. You’re  here.  Q.  E.  D.  And,  from 
your  mind,  I can  see  why  out  of  an  infinity 
of  universes  you  landed  in  this  particular 
one.” 

“Why?” 

“Because  you  were  thinking  about  this 
particular  universe  at  the  instant  the  rocket 
struck.  You  were  thinking  about  your  sci- 
ence-fiction fan,  Joe  Doppelberg,  and  you 
were  wondering  what  kind  of  a universe  he 
would  dream  about,  what  kind  he  would  like. 
And  this  is  it. 

“Analyze  the  differences  and  you’ll  see 
they  fit,  all  of  them.  You  didn’t  think  this 
universe  up,  Keith  Winton.  It  existed.  It’s 
real.  Any  universe  you  might  have  been 
thinking  of  would  have  existed,  ready  for 
you  to  be  blown  into  by  the  Burton  flash.” 

“I — understand,”  Keith  Winton  said. 

It  answered  a lot  of  things.  Yes,  this  was 
the  kind  of  universe  Joe  Doppelberg  would 
have  thought  of  and  dreamed  of — with  a 
romanticized  hero  named  Dopelle  practically 
running  it,  saving  it.  It  even  answered  a lot 
of  little  details. 

Joe  Doppelberg  had  been  at  the  Borden 
office.  He’d  seen  Betty  Hadley  and  probably 
been  smitten  by  her.  And  so  here  Betty  was 
in  love  with  Dopelle.  Joe  knew  of  Keith 
Winton,  had  corresponded  with  him  and  had 
a mental  picture  of  him,  so  there  was  a Keith 
Winton  here. 

“But  Joe  hadn’t  ever  seen  Keith  Winton — 
he’d  been  out  of  New  York  the  day  of  Joe’s 
call — so  the  physical  picture  wasn’t  accurate. 
Joe  had  seen  Borden,  so  Borden  was  here — 
but  Joe  didn’t  know  of  Borden’s  Greeneville 
estate  and  there  hadn’t  happened  to  be  a 
Greeneville  estate  here. 

“It  all  fitted — even  to  the  improvement  of 
the  Bems  on  the  covers  of  Surprising  Stories 
— bug-eyed  monsters  with  the  subtle  horror 
that  Doppelberg  demanded  in  them. 

A crazy  Earth  with  everyday  automobiles 
— and  space-ships,  too.  Black  adventure  at 
night  on  Manhattan  Island — and  intergalac- 


WHAT  laAD 

tic  -warfare.  A Moon  with  air  on  it — and  a 
super-marvelous  mechanical  brain  as  Dopelle 
had  created  it.  Dopelle  the  super  man,  the 
only  man  who’d  been  to  Arcturus  and  come 
back  alive.  Dopelle  who  was  almost  single- 
handed  saving  the  solar  system. 

Universe  a la  Doppelberg!  It  fitted — ev- 
erything fitted.  It  had  to  be. 

The  men  in  the  big  room  down  below  the 
balcony  were  now  putting  the  finishing 
touches  on  the  thing  they  were  making — a 
thing  of  complicated  coils  that  still  somewhat 
resembled  the  pictures  he’d  seen  once  of  a 
Burton  potentiomotor.  Apparently  Mekky 
had  finished  his  telepathed  instructions  to 
them. 

Mekky  floated  up  to  the  balcony  now  and 
hovered  near  Keith’s  shoulder.  In  Keith’s 
mind,  he  said,  “They’re  installing  it  on  a 
life-boat,  a rocket-propelled  craft.  Someone 
must  take  the  life-raft  out  and  run  it  around 
a while  until  a tremendous  charge  is  built 
up  in  the  Burton  apparatus.  Then  it  will 
hover  near  the  fleet  until  the  monster  ship 
from  Arcturus  materializes  here  to  destroy 
us.  They  have  the  same  space-drive  we  have. 

“Then  the  life-raft  must  crash  the  mon- 
ster. The  Arc  ship  is  inertialess.  Any  other 
ship  we  have  can  crash  it  without  hurting 
it.  Nothing  in  our  armaments  can  touch  it. 
It  will  blaze  a path  of  death  and  destruction 
through  the  planets  after  it  has  destroyed 
our  fleet.  Unless  the  Burton  apparatus — 
which  is  new  to  them  as  to  us — can  destroy 
it.’’ 

“Can  it,  though?” 

“You’ll  know  when  you  crash  the  life-raft 
into  it.  Yes,  you  will  be  given  the  privilege. 
Every  man  in  the  fleet  would  volunteer.  Do- 
pelle himself  would  love  to  do  it  but  I talked 
him  into  letting  you.  I knew  from  your  mind 
that  you’d  want  to  take  the  chance.  It  will — 

I believe — get  you  back  to  your  own  uni- 
verse. 

“The  life-raft  isn’t  a raft,  of  course.  That’s 
just  a nickname  for  it.  It’s  a small  rocket- 
propelled  ship.  You’ve  never  seen  one.  I 
shall  implant  knowledge  of  its  operation  in 
your  mind  before  you  enter  it.  And  you 
know  what  to  do  before  the  crash.” 

“What?” 

“Concentrate  on  your  own  world.  On  a 
specific  part  of  it;  possibly  on  the  very  spot 
where  you  were  a week  ago  when  the  moon 
rocket  hit  you.  But  not  on  that  time,  of 
course — upon  that  place  in  that  universe,  as 
of  now. 


UNIVERSE  69 

“You  don’t  want  to  get  back  there  just 
in  time  to  be  blown  away  again  by  the  moon 
rocket’s  landing.  From  there  you  can  go 
to  New  York — the  New  York  you  know. 
And  to  Betty  Hadley — your  Betty  Hadley.” 
Keith  reddened  a little.  There  was  a 
disadvantage  to  having  one’s  mind  read  that 
thoroughly  even  by  a mechanical  brain. 

The  men  were  wheeling  off  the  thing  they 
had  made. 

“Will  it  take  them  long  to  install  it  in  the 
rocket?”  he  asked. 

“Only  minutes.  Relax  now  and  close 
your  eyes,  Keith  Winton.  I’ll  implant  in 
your  mind  the  knowledge  of  how  to  control 
a rocket-propelled  craft.” 

Keith  Winton  closed  his  eyes  and  re- 
laxed . . . 

The  life-raft  hovered,  ten  thousand  miles 
out  from  Saturn.  A thousand  miles 
from  the  Earth  fleet  Keith  could  see  the 
fleet  in  his  visiplate,  hundreds  of  ships  of  all 
sizes,  the  might  of  the  Solar  System,  yet 
helpless  against  the  thing  to  come. 

And  he,  alone  in  this  tiny  cigar-shaped 
rocket  only  thirty  feet  long  by  six  in  cir- 
cumference, could  do  what  the  whole  fleet 
couldn’t — he  hoped.  Well,  Mekky  thought  it 
would  work  and  Mekky  would  know  if  any- 
body or  anything  would  know.  No  use 
worrying  about  it.  It  would  work  or  it 
wouldn’t  and,  if  it  didn’t,  he  wouldn’t  live 
to  worry. 

He  tested  the  controls,  sending  the  rocket 
in  a tight  little  circle  only  a mile  across, 
coming  back  and  to  a dead  stop  at  the  point 
at  which  he’d  started.  A difficult  maneuver 
but  easy  for  him  now.  “The  Ole  Rocketeer,” 
he  thought.  “If  my  fans  of  the  Rocketalk 
Department  could  only  see  me  now.”  He 
grinned. 

Inside  his  head,  Mekky’s  voice  said,  “It’s 
coming.  I feel  ether  -vibrations.” 

He  lodked  hard  at  the  visiplate.  There 
was  a black  dot  just  off  the  center  of  it.  He 
touched  the  controls,  got  the  dot  on  dead 
center  and  slammed  on  all  the  rockets,  full 
power. 

The  black  dot  grew,  slowly  at  first,  then 
filled  the  screen.  He  was  going  to  hit  it  in 
a second  now.  Quickly,  desperately,  he  re- 
membered to  concentrate  on  Eartii,  his 
Earth,  on  the  spot  near  Greeneville,  New 
York.  On  Betty  Hadley.  On  currency  in 
sensible  dollars  and  cents  and  night  life  on 


STARTLING  STORIES 


70 

Broadway  without  the  mist-out,  on  every- 
thing he’d  known. 

A series  of  pictures  flashed  through  his 
mind,  as  is  supposed  to  be  the  case  with  a 
drowning  man.  “But — Lord,”  he  thought, 
“Why  didn’t  I think  of  it  sooner?  It  doesn’t 
have  to  be  exactly  like  that.  I can  make  a 
few  improvements,  I can  pick  a universe 
almost  exactly  like  mine  but  with  a few  dif- 
ferences that  would  make  it  better,  such 
as — 

The  rocket  hit  the  monster  ship,  dead 
center.  There  was  a blinding  flash. 

Again  there  was  no  sense  of  a time  lapse. 
Keith  Winton  was  again  lying  flat  on  the 
ground  and  it  w'as  early  evening.  There 
were  stars  in  the  sky  and  a moon.  It  was 
a half-moon,  he  noticed,  not  the  orescent 
moon  of  last  Saturday  evening. 

He  looked  down  and  around  him.  He  was 
in  the  middle  of  a big  charred  and  black- 
ened area.  Not  far  away  were  the  founda- 
tions of  what  had  been  a house,  and  he 
recognized  the  size  and  shape  of  it.  He 
recognized  the  blackened  stump  of  a tree 
beside  him.  Things  looked  as  though  the 
explosion  and  fire  had  occurred  almost  a 
week  ago.  “Good,”  he  thought.  “Back 
at  the  right  time  and  place.” 

He  stood  up  and  stretched,  feeling  a bit 
stiff  from  his  confinement  in  the  little  rocket- 
ship. 

He  walked  out  to  the  road,  still  feeling 
a bit  uneasy.  JVhy  had  he  let  his  mind  wan- 
der a trifle  just  at  the  last  minute.  He  could 
have  made  a mistake  doing  that.  What  if — ? 

A truck  was  coming  along  and  he  hailed 
it,  getting  a lift  into  Greeneville.  The  driver 
was  taciturn.  They  didn’t  talk  at  all  on  the 
way  in, 

Keith  thanked  him  as  he  got  off  at  the 
main  square  of  town.  He  ran  quickly  to  the 
newsstand  to  look  at  the  headline  of  the 
current  newspaper  displayed  there.  “Giants 
Beat  Bums,”  it  read.  Keith  sighed  with  re- 
lief. 

He  realized  he’d  been  sweating  until  he’d 
seen  that  headline.  He  wiped  perspiration  off 
his  forehead  and  went  into  the  newsstand. 
“Got  a copy  of  Surprising  Stories?”  he 
asked. 

“Right  here,  sir.” 

He  glanced  at  the  cover,  at  the  familiar 
cover,  saw  that  it  said  20c,  and  not  2cr. 
Again  he  sighed  with  relief— until  he  readied 
for  change  in  his  pocket  and  remembered 
there  wasn’t  any  there.  And  there’d  be  only 


credit  bills — a few  of  them — in  his  wallet. 
No  use  pulling  that  out. 

Embarrassed,  he  handed  the  magazine 
back.  “Sorry,”  he  said.  “Just  realized  I 
came  away  without  any  money.” 

“Oh,  that’s  all  right,  Mr.  Winton,”  the 
proprietor  said.  “Pay  me  any  time.  And — 
uh — if  you  came  away  without  your  money 
could  I lend  you  some?  Would  ten  dollars 
help?” 

“It  surely  would,”  Keith  said.  “Thanks 
a lot  Uh — make  it  nine-eighty,  so  I’ll  owe 
you  an  even  ten  with  the  magazine.” 
“Sure.  Gee,  I’m  glad  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Winton.  We  thought  you  were  killed  when 
the  rocket  hit.  All  the  papers  said  so.” 
“Of  course,”  Keith  thought.  “That’s  how 
he  knows  me.  My  picture  would  have  been 
in  the  papers  as  one  of  Borden’s  visitors 
who  was  killed.” 

“Glad  to  say  the  newspapers  got  it 
wrong,”  he  told  the  man.  “Thanks  a lot.” 

IW  E POCKETED  the  nine  dollars  and 
H eighty  cents,  and  went  out  again.  It 
was  getting  to  be  dusk,  just  as  it  had  been 
before  on  last  Saturday  night.  Well,  now 
to- — ^now  to  what?  He  couldn’t  phone  Bor- 
den. 

Borden  was  dead — or  ma3d)e  blown  into 
another  universe.  Keith  hoped  it  was  the 
latter.  Had  the  Bordens  and  the  others 
who’d  been  on  the  estate,  been  near  enough 
the  center  of  the  flash  to  have  had  that 
happen  to  them  ? He  hoped  so. 

An  unpleasant  memory  ritade  him  walk 
past  the  corner  drugstore  where — it  seemed 
like  years  ago— he'd  seen  his  first  purple 
Bern.  He  went  into  the  drugstore  on  the 
next  comer  and  walked  back  to  the  phone 
booth.  Often  someone  worked  late  in  the 
Borden  offices  in  New  York.  Maybe  some- 
body would  be  working  there  now.  If  not,  all 
the  call  would  cost  him  wmuld  be  a rejK>rt 
charge. 

He  got  a handful  of  change  from  the 
druggist  and  went  back  to  the  phone  booth. 
How  did  one  dial  a lor^  distance  operator 
on  a Greeneville  phone?  He  picked  up  the 
Greeneville  directory  to  find  out  and  idly 
leafed  it  open  to  the  B’s  first.  The  last  time 
he’d  handled  one  of  these  things  there 
hadn’t  been  any  L.  A.  Borden  listed. 

This  time,  of  course — just  to  reassure  him- 
self, he  ran  his  finger  down  the  column. 
There  wasn’t  any  L.  A.  Borden. 

For  Just  a minute,  he  leaned  against  the 


WHAT  MAD  UNIVERSE 


back  of  the  phone  booth  and  closed  his  eyes. 
Then  he  looked  again.  Had  some  embryonic 
thoughts  gone  through  his  mind  at  the  last 
minute  and  brought  him  back  to  a universe 
not  quite  the  same  as  the  one  he  left? 

Quickly  he  yanked  the  copy  of  Surprising 
Stories  out  of  his  pocket  and  opened  it  to  the 
title  page.  He  ran  his  finger  to  the  point  in 
the  fine  print  where — Ray  Wheeler,  Manag- 
ing Editor,  it  read.  Not  Keith  Winton  but 
Ray  Wheeler.  Who  the  devil  was  Ray 
Wheeler  ? 

Quickly  his  eyes  swung  to  the  name  of  the 
publisher — and  it  didn’t  read  Borden  Publi- 
cations, Inc.,  at  all.  It  read  Winton  Publi- 
cations, Inc.  It  took  him  a full  five  seconds 
to  figure  out  where  he’d  heard  the  name  of 
Winton  before.  Then  he  grabbed  for  the 
phone  book  again  and  looked  under  the 
W’s.  There  was  a Keith  Winton  listed, 
Cedarburg  Road,  and  a familiar  phone  num- 
ber, Greeneville  111. 

No  wonder  the  newsdealer  had  known 
him,  then.  And  he  had  changed  things  some- 
what and  somehow  with  those  last  minute 
thoughts  in  the  rocket  ship.  This  was  al- 
most the  same  universe  but  not  quite.  In  it 
Keith  Winton  owned  one  of  the  biggest 
chains  of  publications  in  the  country  and 
had  owned  a Greeneville  estate! 

But  what  else — if  anything? 

He  put  a coin  in  the  phone  and  said  quick- 


71 

ly,  “Long  distance,  please,”  before  he  re- 
membered it  was  a dial  phone. 

His  hands  fumbled  the  directory  before  he 
could  find  out  how  to  get  a long  distance 
operator. 

Then  he  got  one,  and  said,  “New  York, 
please.  Have  the  New  York  operator  see  if 
there  is  a Betty  Hadley  listed  and  get  her 
for  me  if  there  is.  Quickly,  please.” 

A few  minutes  later — “Your  party,  sir.” 
And  then  Betty’s  cool  voice  saying.  Hello.” 
“Betty,  this  is  Keith  Winton.  I — ” 
"Keith!  We  thought  you — the  papers 
said — what  happened?” 

“Guess  I must  have  been  in  the  explosion, 
Betty,  but  at  the  edge  of  it  and  just  got 
knocked  out.  I must  have  had  amnesia  from 
the  shock  and  been  wandering  around.  I 
just  came  to  myself.  I’m  in  Greeneville?” 
“Oh,  Keith,  that’s  wonderful  I It’s — I 
just  can’t  say  it ! You’re  coming  right  to 
New  York?” 

“As  soon  as  a plane  will  get  me  there. 
Want  to  meet  me  at  La  Guardia  field?” 
“Do  I want  to?  Oh,  darling 
And  a moment  later,  Keith  Winton — with 
a dazed  and  somewhat  silly  look  on  his  face 
— put  the  receiver  on  the  hook  and  hurried 
out  of  the  drugstore.  A taxi  to  the  airport 
and  then — 

This,  he  thought,  was  a universe  he’d 
really  settle  for. 


Next  Issue’s  Novel:  AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT,  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke 


RAT  RACE 


Ey  DOROTHY  and  JOHN  DE  CODRCY 


The  Rat-men's  empire  spread  ever  outward  until  it 
engulfed  the  world  in  a paralysis  of  total  terror 


OIS  MACDONALD  opened  the 
door  of  the  laboratory.  Her  hus- 
band, Bruce,  and  Dr.  Granas  were 
studying  something  intently. 

“It’s  six  o’clock,  Bruce,”  she  called  from 
the  doorway. 

Bruce  looked  up  from  the  table.  “Al- 
ready?” he  asked,  surprised. 

Dr.  Granas  stretched.  “That’s  the  way  it 
is,  Bruce.  Time  seems  to  slip  through  a 
man’s  fingers  when  he’s  doing  something.” 

Bruce  walked  across  the  room.  “Well, 
we  might  as  well  hear  what  he  has  to  say  and 


get  it  over  with.”  He  snapped  on  the  tele- 
visor and  walked  back  to  the  sink.  The  two 
men  washed  their  hands  and  dried  them, 
occasionally  glancing  at  the  screen. 

The  orchestra  that  had  been  playing  van- 
ished to  be  replaced  by  the  solemn  face  of  an 
announcer.  “Ladies  and  Gentlemen.  This 
is  Malcolm  Field,  speaking  to  you  from  the 
United  Nations  Government  Building  in 
Geneva.  Through  the  cooperation  of  the 
European  Broadcasting  Alliance,  we  bring 
you  a special  address  by  United  States  Dele- 
gate, Avery  B.  Clark.” 


74  STARTLING  STORIES 


The  scene  shifted  and  the  usually  tragic 
face  of  Delegate  Clark  appeared  looking  more 
dejected  than  usual.  He  cleared  his  throat. 

“My  fellow  citizens.  There  are  few  of 
you,  if  any,  who  do  not  know  of  the  mo- 
mentous events  of  these  last  four  days.  You 
have  heard,  as  did  I,  the  surrender  ultimatum 
of  the  Cafis.  Yesterday,  we  experienced  the 
type  of  warfare  which  we  can  expect  if  we 
are  to  resist. 

“For  one  hour,  it  was  as  if  our  civilization 
did  not  exist  and  we  were  returned  to  the 
Stone  Age.  The  official  emissary  of  the 
Cafis  explained  the  principle  of  this  weapon 
and  has  shown  how  it  is  applied,  yet  none 
of  our  scientists,  either  professional  or  ama- 
teur, has  been  able  to  find  a way  to  combat 
this  weapon.  The  Cafis  have  informed  us 
that  tliis  only  one  of  many  such  weapons 
and  each  is  equally  potent. 

“This  is  not  war  as  we  of  earth  have 
known  war,  but  it  is  war  none  the  less.  The 
Cafis  are  an  alien  race  and  therefore  a 
peculiar  one.  If  they  had  wished,  they  could 
have  attacked  us  without  warning  and  by 
now,  we  would  all  be  dead. 

“My  fellow  delegates  and  I have  felt  the 
grave  responsibility  resting  upon  u.^  and  we 
have  considered  the  facts  carefully.  If  I 
were  deciding  for  myself  alone,  I would  say, 
fight ! Fight  to  the  end ! I would  have  noth- 
ing of  greater  value  to  risk  than  my  life  and 
my  honor.  But,  I have  had  to  decide  for  you, 
for  your  wives,  for  your  fathers  and  mothers, 
for  your  husbands  and  for  your  children. 

“Therefore,  I have  made  the  only  decision 
possible.  It  is  the  unanimous  decision  of  the 
United  Nations  Government  that  we  accept 
the  ultimatum,  ‘surrender  without  condition.’ 
The  surrender  will  take  effect  at  seven 
o’clock  tonight.  Eastern  Standard  Time. 
From  then  on,  we  will  be  subjects  of  the 
Galactic  Empire  of  Cafis,  and  we  will  be 
expected  to  govern  ourselves  accordingly.” 

ELEGATE  CLARK  paused,  his  lower 
lip  trembling.  “Good-by  and  God  be 
iwith  you,”  he  finished  hastily. 

Bruce  turned  the  televisor  off.  He  looked 
jrt  Granas  and  then  at  his  wife.  “Hello, 
fellow  slaves,”  he  said,  grinning. 

“It’s  not  funny,  Bruce!”  Lois  snapped 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Bruce  went 
to  her  side  and  put  his  arms  around  her. 

“I  wonder  what  we  do  now?”  Dr.  Granas 
asked  of  no  one  in  particular. 

“I’m  afraid  I don’t  know.  Unde  Bob,” 


Bruce  answered.  “I  haven’t  had  much  ex- 
perience at  this  sort  of  thing.  ” 

“Is — isn’t  there  something  we  can  do?” 
Lois  burst  forth,  desperately.  “Maybe — 
maybe  if  there  was  more  electricity — ” 

Dr.  Granas  shook  his  head.  “If  you  were 
a scientist,  Lois,  you’d  understand.  This 
thing  can’t  be  beaten.  You’ve  seen  con- 
densers and  you  know  how  simple  they  are. 
The  weapon  of  the  Cafis  is  almost  the  same 
as  a condenser.  They  created  two  electro- 
static fields  of  unimaginable  intensity  which 
encompassed  the  earth  outside  the  atmos- 
phere. This  in  turn,  converted  the  earth 
into  a non-unified  stress  field  and  isn’t  en- 
tirely understood.” 

“But — but  how  does  it  work?”  Lois  asked. 
“Surely  there  is  some  way  to  combat  it !” 

Dr.  Granas  smiled.  “Well,  any  electrical 
activity,  no  matter  how  slight,  acting  in  this 
field,  instantly  sets  up  a counter  potential  of 
almost  equal  pressure.  It  would  take  billions 
of  horsepower  to  operate  even  the  devices 
in  the  house.  'The  earth  simply  hasn’t  got 
the  available  power  to  overcome  this  po- 
tential, and  even  if  it  did,  we  would  be  de- 
feating ourselves  in  using  it  since  the  C^s 
draw  their  power  directly  from  the  sun. 

“Why,  there  would  be  such  a tremendous 
amount  of  heat  released  here  on  Earth  that 
it  would  destroy  all  life  within  a matter  of 
hours.  Even  if  we  surmounted  that  obstacle, 
the  Cafis  would  be  draining  so  much  power 
from  the  sun  that  in  a few  weeks,  it  would 
become  unstable  and  might  even  explode  into 
a super-nova. 

“We  would  then  literally  be  jumping 
from  the  frying  pan  into  the  fire.  There 
might  be  another  way  but  we  simply  haven’t 
the  technology  and  knowledge  to  find  it  or 
use  it.  In  a hundred  years  we  might,  but 
not  now.” 

Lois  nodded  dejectedly.  They  just  .sat 
disconsolately  in  the  laboratory.  There  was 
nothing  to  say ; nothing  to  do  but  wait. 

Finally,  Dr.  Granas  glanced  at  the  clock. 
“'Thirty-eight  more  minutes  of  freedom,”  he 
sighed.  “Thirty-eight  more  precious  minutes 
and  I have  nothing  to  do.” 

Bruce  roused  himself.  “Do  you  remember 
that  bottle  of  Napoleon  brandy  you  gave  us 
two  years  ago?”  Dr.  Granas  nodded.  “Well, 
it  seems  to  me,”  Bruce  continued,  “that  it’s 
still  in  the  refrigerator.” 

Lois  looked  up.  “It’s  still  there,  darling. 
Shall  I get  it?” 

“I  think  it  would  be  a good  idea,”  Bruce 


RAT  RACE  75 


said.  “Take  it  into  the  living  room,  dear, 
and  I’ll  get  the  goblets.” 

In  the  living  room,  Bruce  carefully  divided 
what  was  left  of  the  brandy  into  three  goblets. 
He  cet  the  bottle  down  and  silently  handed 
glasses  to  Lois  and  her  Uncle  Bob.  They 
stood  facing  each  other,  Bruce  slightly  swirl- 
ing the  brandy  in  his  glass. 

Dr.  Granas  again  glanced  at  the  clock. 
“Ladies  and  gentlemen,”  he  began,  oratori- 
cally,  “since  this  is  my  last  twenty-seven 
minutes  of  freedom.  I offer  a toast.  To  the 
United  Nations,  to  the  United  States,  and 
to — tomorrow  morning.  May  I wake  up  and 
find  this  is  all  a dream.” 

Lois  bit  her  lip  as  the  glasses  tinkled.  They 
fell  silent  again  after  the  toast,  each  count- 
ing the  minutes  and  having  in  them,  thoughts 
too  private  to  share. 

Soon,  Granas  walked  over  to  the  televisor. 
He  turned.  “Shall  I turn  it  on?”  he  asked, 
hesitantly. 

“Let’s  wait  until  seven,”  Lois  suggested. 
“We’re  free  to  do  as  we  please  until  then.” 

“Maybe  it  would  be  better,”  Granas 
agreed.  “I  imagine  the  ‘rats’  will  have  us 
listening  every  day  to  propaganda  broadcasts 
from  now  on.” 

“You’re  going  to  have  to  watch  out  for 
that  word  in  the  future.  Uncle  Bob,”  Bruce 
said.  “They  may  be  rodents  but  they’re 
also  our  bosses.” 

Lois  shuddered.  “They  do  look  like  rats,” 
she  interposed.  “I  think  they’re  horrible!” 

RUCE  replied,  “You  know,  I think 
we’re  being  illogical.  They  don’t  really 
look  Kkd  rats.  They  don’t  have  any  fur.  If  it 
weren’t  for  their  teeth  and  that  bottlelike 
shape,  they  could  easily  pass  themselves  off 
as  men.  We  humans  have  some  sort  of  a 
natural  aversion  for  rodents,  particularly 
rats,  but  after  all,  just  because  they’re  rodents 
instead  of  primates  doesn’t  mean  they  are 
vicious.  I think  they've  treated  us  quite 
well,  so  far.” 

“We  still  don’t  know  what  they’re  going 
to  do,”  Dr.  Granas  said,  caustically. 

“I  wonder  how  such  a terrible  life  form 
happened  to  become  a dominant  animal?” 
Lois  asked. 

“Oh,  it’s  logical  enough,”  Dr.  Granas 
answered.  “It’s  really  only  an  accident  that 
a primate  like  man  became  dominant  here. 
On  the  whole,  rodentia  are  intelligent,  and 
they  are  certainly  prolific.  By  all  rights  they 
shtMild  have  developed  here.  Even  as  it  is, 


we  have  a great  deal  of  trouble  saving  civili- 
zation from  rats.  They  have  lived  with  us 
everywhere  and  have  practically  defied  our 
every  attempt  to  get  rid  of  them.” 

“Oh  let’s  not  talk  about  them  any  more,” 
Lois  exclaimed.  “They  make  my  skin 
crawl ! ” 

“All  right,”  Dr  Granas  answered.  “May- 
be we  should  be  watching  the  televisor.  The 
Cafis  will  probably  have  plenty  to  say.” 

“I  guess  I’ll  go  to  bed,”  Lois  said.  “I 
don’t  think  I could  stand  seeing  those  awful 
rat  faces  again.” 

Bruce  kissed  her.  “I’ll  be  up  soon,  dear, 
and  don’t  worry.  Everything  will  be  all 
right.  ” 

Lois  smiled  and  nodded  her  head,  but 
Bruce  could  see  that  she  wasn’t  convinced. 

Dr.  Granas  waited  until  Lois  was  gone 
and  then  snapped  on  the  televisor.  A well- 
known  commentator  was  reviewing  the  events 
of  the  preceding  four  days,  augmented  by 
recorded  scenes. 

“.  . . more  than  industrial  paralysis.  In 
homes  and  offices,  these  scenes  were  typical.” 
The  scene  shifted  to  show  a young  woman 
snapping  on  switches  and  plugging  in  ap- 
pliances all  over  her  house.  Nothing  worked. 
The  scene  changed  to  an  office  where  a 
young  man  smilingly  demonstrated  an  in- 
operative adding  machine.  The  young  man 
picked  up  a flashlight  and  snapped  on  the 
switch.  Nothing  happened. 

The  commentator’s  voice  broke  in.  “These 
scenes  are  in  no  way  exaggerated  as  you  all 
know.  Although  we  have  not  yet  received 
the  final  reports,  preliminary  surveys  show 
that  all  types  of  electrical  equipment,  no  mat- 
ter where  situated,  were  blanked  out  during 
the  one  hour  test  yesterday.” 

“The  Cafis  emissary,  Atis  Tobe,  declared 
that  if  the  weapon  had  been  stepped  to  a 
higher  degree,  it  would  have  also  prevented 
the  travel  of  light  and  heat.  Incidentally,  we 
were  able  to  make  these  recordings  by  using 
mechanical  motion  picture  devices  and  so  the 
stoppage  had  no  effect.” 

He  paused.  “That’s  about  all  the  time  we 
have  left.  There  will  be  further  bulletins 
every  hour  unless  the  Cafis  begin  censorship 
of  news.  And  now  we  take  you  to  the  New 
York  News  Bureau.” 

“Now  what?”  Dr.  Cranas  asked. 

“Good  evening,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  This 
is  Marvin  Hill.  Our  New  York  News  Bur- 
eau has  become  more  or  less  the  center  o£ 
attention  during  the  last  twenty  minutes.  The 


STARTLING  STORIES 


76 

Cafis  Gan,  Atis  Tobe,  has  landed  in  New 
York  and  has  requested  a hookup  for  a na- 
tionwide broadcast.  Reports  are  coming  in 
indicating  that  similar  broadcasts  will  take 
place  in  Europe  and  Asia.  Official  emis- 
saries of  the  Cafis  have  established  headquar- 
ters in  London,  Paris,  Moscow,  Madrid, 
Rome  and  Istanbul. 

“We  have  a tentative  report  from  Shang- 
hai but  it  has  not  yet  been  verified.  It  ap- 
pears that  simultaneous  broadcasts  which  will 
cover  the  whole  world  will  begin  in  a very 
few  minutes.  Indications  are  that  New  York 
will  be  the  new  seat  of  government  at  least 
temporarily.  We  are  preparing — That’s  the 
signal,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  We  take  you 
to  the  Municipal  Building.’’ 

“I  wish  they  wouldn’t  be  so  cheerful,” 
Bruce  muttered.  “You’d  think  this  was  the 
Fourth  of  July  or  something!” 

NEW  face  appeared  on  the  screen. 

“Good  evening  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
the  United  States,”  the  face  intoned.  “This 
is  Kimball  Trent,  V/e  are  bringing  you  a 
special  address  by  the  Viceroy  of  the  Cafis 
Empire,  Atis  Tobe,”  He  paused,  significant- 
ly, “Viceroy  Tobe.” 

The  face  and  shoulders  of  the  Viceroy 
came  into  view.  “So  that’s  the  number  one 
rat,”  Dr.  Granas  mumbled.  Bruce  thought 
Atis  Tobe  was  staring  directly  at  Dr.  Gran- 
as. At  least,  it  looked  as  though  he  were.  A 
man’s  voice  was  heard  in  the  background. 
“You’re  on  the  air.  Your  Excellency.” 

“Thank  you,”  the  Viceroy  said  with  a 
slight  lisp.  With  beady  eyes  he  stared  from 
the  screen  and  twitched  his  nose  a little.  The 
whiskers  on  the  side  of  his  nose  were 
trimmed  close  and  even,  looking  very  much 
like  an  out-of-place  mustache.  His  ears  were 
small  and  except  for  the  bulging  forehead, 
he  looked  very  much  like  a hairless  rat. 
Even  his  voice  was  high  pitched  and  some- 
what squeaky. 

“I  bring  greetings  to  the  most  recently 
acquired  of  the  Cafis  Empire.  Although  you 
have  surrendered  and  are  technically  a sub- 
ject race,  may  I assure  you  that  your  status 
is  that  of  citizens  in  our  great  Empire.” 

“Soft  soap!”  Bruce  growled. 

“As  fellow  citizens,”  the  Cafis  Gan  con- 
tinued, “I  fee!  we  should  understand  one  an- 
other. I am  sure  that  a few  of  you  are  har- 
boring some  misconceptions  regarding  us. 
Possibly  I do  also  regarding  you.  We  have 
studied  your  planet  for  only  four  days  and 


most  of  our  energy  and  resources  have  been 
devoted  to  the  study  of  your  languages.  It 
has  been  difficult  but  we  have  mastered  them 
sufficiently  to  adequately  express  our  de- 
sires. By  induction,  we  have  been  able  to 
formulate  a reasonably  accurate  picture  of 
the  average  inhabitant  of  this  planet. 

“That  you  are  creatures  of  logic  is  obvi- 
ous, since  you  have  surrendered  rather  than 
tried  to  resist  the  inevitable.  That  you  are 
civilized  is  plain,  not  only  from  your  tech- 
nology but  from  your  attitude  toward  us,  an 
alien  race.  Because  of  these  things,  I am 
safe  in  assuring  you  that  you  will  soon  be 
granted  full  citizenship  in  the  Cafis  Empire 
with  all  its  rights  and  privileges.” 

Dr.  Granas  snorted.  “He  hasn’t  gathered 
what  our  attitude  really  is ! His  hide  must 
be  a foot  thick!” 

They  listened  to  a glowing  dissertation  on 
the  benefits  of  citizenship  in  the  Cafis  Em- 
pire. The  inducements  were  purely  intellec- 
tual and  carried  not  even  a residue  of  emo- 
tional appeal. 

“Cold  blooded  little  beggars!”  the  doctor 
growled. 

“There  are  a few  prerequisites  to  obtain- 
ing citizenship,  however,”  the  Viceroy  went 
on,  “but  since  these  conditions  are  logically 
necessary,  I confidently  expect  your  full  co- 
operation. ” 

At  this  point,  the  Cafis  Gan  attempted  a 
grin.  Seldom  had  Bruce  seen  a more  revolt- 
ing spectacle.  The  Viceroy  decided  he  had 
grinned  enough  and  continued  his  speech. 

“In  order  to  coordinate  technology,  it  is 
necessary  that  all  scientists  and  technicians  be 
registered.  If  then,  you  are  engaged  in  one 
or  more  of  the  following  professions,  full  or 
part  time,  you  will  go  to  the  nearest  center 
of  local  government  and  there  leave  your 
name,  address  and  other  such  data  as  you 
will  be  asked  by  those  in  charge  of  the  regis- 
tration, Registration  will  begin  tomorrow 
morning  at  eight  o’clock  and  will  continue 
until  the  registration  is  complete.” 

The  Viceroy  began  reading  off  the  names 
of  various  sciences,  arts  and  crafts  with 
monotonous  intonations.  When  he  reached 
‘Biologist’,  Bruce  stirred  and  mumbled  some- 
thing inaudibly.  Shortly  after  that  came 
‘Chemist’. 

“I  see  I’m  in  this  too,”  Dr.  Granas  sighed. 
They  listened  while  the  Cafis  Gan  finished 
his  list.  Then  he  favored  his  audience  with 
another  smile.  He  laid  down  several  more 


RAT 

edicts  which  were  not  too  restrictive  and 
suggested  that  it  was  desirable  that  each  per- 
son conduct  himself  in  his  most  normal  man- 
ner. 

“Business  as  usual  during  altercations !” 
Dr,  Granas  gritted. 

The  Viceroy  stopped  speaking  and  turned 
his  head.  He  made  a motion  to  someone, 
and  his  face  vanished  to  be  replaced  by  that 
of  a local  announcer. 

Dr.  Granas  reached  over  and  switched  off 
the  televiser.  “Well,  Bruce,  I wonder  how 
many  times  a minute  they  would  like  to  have 
us  breathe!” 

Bruce  didn’t  move.  He  just  stared  at  the 
blank  screen. 

“What  do  you  think  we  should  do  now?” 
Dr.  Granas  asked. 

Still  Bruce  didn’t  stir. 

“What’s  the  matter,  boy?  Are  you  hyp- 
notized or  something?” 

“Huh?  Oh.  What  did  you  say,  Uncle 
Bob?” 

“I  said,  are  you  hypnotized?” 

“Ah — oh  no.  It  was  just  that  profile.” 
“Well,”  Granas  smiled,  “I  can’t  say  that 
it’s  any  more  repugnant  than  a full  face 
view.” 

“No,  I mean — ” Bruce  paused.  “Oh,  I 
don’t  know.”  He  sighed.  “Let  it  go.” 

“I’ve  been  thinking,  Bruce.  If  we  get 
downtown  early  tomorrow,  we  may  not  have 
to  wait  long  to  register.” 

“Yeah,  I suppose  so,”  Bruce  answered, 
“but  if  you  feel  up  to  it.  I’d  like  to  do  a little 
work  tonight.  The  only  thing  we  have  tO  do 
is  connect  up  the  amplifying  circuits.” 

“It’s  all  right  with  me,”  Dr.  Granas  re- 
plied. “We  can  start  testing  tomorrow  then.” 
“That  reminds  me,”  Bruce  interrupted. 
“In  order  to  energize  the  colloid,  we’ll  have 
to  feed  a variable  current  into  the  input 
amplifier.” 

“Yes,”  Dr.  Granas  nodded.  “The  more 
variable,  the  better.” 

“Well,  how  about  this  idea,”  Bruce  sug- 
gested. “Let’s  hook  a microphone  up  to  the 
input  and  stand  it  in  front  of  the  loudspeaker 
of  the  lab’s  televisor.  That  would  really  give 
us  variation.  W’e  can  keep  it  turned  on  low 
enough  so  it  won't  bother  anyone.” 

“Sometimes,  Bruce,  you  get  the  darnedest 
ideas,”  Dr.  Granas  chuckled.  “I  guess  you’re 
just  naturally  lazy.  There’s  nothing  like  let- 
ting the  broadcasting  company  energize  the 
colloid  for  us  I” 

“Do  you  think  it’ll  work?”  Bruce  asked. 


RACE  77 

“I  don’t  see  why  not.  There’s  nothing 
wrong  with  it.” 

The  two  men  went  into  the  laboratory  and 
set  to  work  on  the  final  connections. 

Forty-five  minutes  later,  Bruce  laid  down 
his  soldering  iron.  “Pretty  much  Goldburg- 
ish  but  the  output  is  O.K.” 

“You  all  done?”  Granas  asked. 

“Yup,  she’s  all  hooked  up.  Do  you  want 
me  to  help  you?” 

“No,  I’m  done  too.  The  circulation  pump 
looks  kind  of  crude  but  I’ll  give  it  the  ‘Gran- 
as’ personal  guarantee.” 

Bruce  walked  over  to  a cabinet  and  took 
out  a small  microphone.  As  he  walked  back, 
he  unwound  the  cord  and  plugged  it  into  the 
calculator’s  input  amplifying  circuit.  They 
finally  got  the  microphone  properly  propped 
up  in  front  of  the  televisor.  As  Granas 
tuned  in  a program,  Bruce  stuck  two  test 
leads  into  the  innards  of  the  tube  circuit. 

“A  little  more  volume.  Uncle  Bob.  There, 
that’s  about  right.” 

Dr.  Granas  straightened  and  grinned. 
“Well,  shall  we  go  to  bed  and  let  the  ‘Mac- 
Donald automatic  energizing  system’  do  the 
work  for  us?” 

Bruce  stuck  his  ear  next  to  the  loud- 
speaker attached  to  the  calculator’s  output. 
“What  do  you  expect  to  hear,  Bruce?” 
“Oh,  nothing.  I just  couldn’t  resist  it.  By 
tomorrow  we  should  have  a pretty  good  echo 
coming  through.” 

“I  hope  you’re  right,  my  boy,”  Dr.  Granas 
replied.  “If  we  don’t,  we  will  have  wasted 
a lot  of  time  and  money.” 

“Under  the  present  circumstances,”  Bruce 
said,  slipping  off  his  lab  coat,  “I  don’t  see 
that  it  makes  much  difference  how  much 
money  we  lose.” 

“No  use  being  bitter,”  Granas  retorted. 
“It  isn’t  going  to  do  the  Cafis  any  harm  or 
you  any  good.” 

“I  guess  you’re  right,”  Bruce  sighed. 

The  two  men  left  the  laboratory.  Dr. 
Granas  paused  at  the  stairway.  “You  go 
ahead,  Bruce.  I forgot  to  shut  the  lights  off.” 
“O.K.  Good  night.” 

“Pleasant  dreams,  fellow  Roman!” 

Bruce  went  upstairs.  Lois  was  asleep  so 
he  undressed  quietly  and  eased  himself  into 
bed. 

MJREAKFAST  was  a dismal  ritual.  Dr. 

Granas  nrade  two  or  three  ineffectual 
attempts  to  relieve  the  oppression.  Lois  was 
obviously  depressed,  but  Bruce  seemed  de- 


STARTLING  STORIES 


78 

tached,  preoccupied,  and  his  face  wore  the 
same  expression  of  philosophic  calm  it  had 
the  night  before. 

“What  have  I done  ? Why  won’t  you  talk 
to  me?”  Dr.  Granas  asked. 

"I’m  sorry,  Uncle  Bob,”  Lois  sighed.  “I 
don’t  mean  to  be  rude.” 

“Oh,  it  isn’t  that,”  Granas  smiled.  “I 
know  you  aren’t  trying  to  be  rude,  but  it 
worries  me  when  you  don’t  talk.” 

“Is  a woman  always  supposed  to  be  talk- 
ing?” Lois  asked,  smiling. 

“Of  course  not,”  Granas  answered,  “but 
I know  you  too  well.  You’re  letting  this 
thing  get  you,  and  you  can’t  hide  it.” 

“I’m  sorry  I'm — just — oh — I guess  I’m 
not  used  to  being  a slave!” 

“I  know  it’s  unpleasant,”  Granas  admit- 
ted, “but  there’s  nothing  we  can  do  about  it, 
and  as  people  have  always  done,  we’ll  just 
have  to  grin  and  bear  it.  Come  on,  Bruce! 
Stop  brooding!”  The  older  man  laid  a 
friendly  hand  on  Bruce’s  shoulder. 

“Huh?” 

“I  said,  cheer  up!” 

Bruce  sighed.  “Oh  I’m  not  depressed. 
I’ve  just  been  thinking.” 

“Well,  you  can  do  your  thinking  when  we 
get  back.  It’s  almost  time  to  leave.  W e want 
to  get  downtown  before  a line  forms  so  we 
can  get  home  earlier.” 

“Would  you  like  some  more  coffee  before 
you  go?”  Lois  asked. 

“I  don’t  think  so,  dear,”  Bruce  answered. 
“Uncle  Bob  is  right.” 

“Bruce,  you’re  getting  to  be  a cynic,  just 
like  your  father,”  Granas  said. 

“Maybe  I am  but  I’ve  got  better  reasons 
than  he  had.” 

Dr.  Granas  arose.  “Let’s  get  going.  We 
can  talk  on  the  way  to  town.” 

Lois  followed  the  two  men  into  the  hall. 
She  took  her  coat  out  of  the  closet  while 
Bruce  was  tying  his  tie. 

“You  aren’t  going  too,  are  you?”  Bruce 
asked. 

“I  most  certainly  am!”  she  replied. 

“Oh  there  isn’t  any  necessity  for  that, 
darling.  This  is  only  a registration.  We’re 
only  going  downtown  and  we’ll  be  right 
back.” 

“I  don’t  trust  them,  any  of  them!”  she 
stated.  “If  you  go,  I go  too!” 

Bruce  opened  his  mouth  to  object,  then, 
finding  no  logical  reason,  let  it  go.  “All 
right,  dear.  Maybe  we’ll  take  in  a show  or 
something  afterward.” 


“Not  today,  we  won’t!”  Granas  inter- 
posed. “It  has  taken  us  two  years  to  build 
our  calculator  and  today  we’re  going  to  test 
it!” 

“I’m  not  so  sure  I want  to  test  it,”  Bruce 
replied,  opening  the  door.  “After  all,  our 
work  is  supposed  to  be  dedicated  to  human- 
ity. Now  we’ll  be  giving  it  to  the  rats.” 

“I  doubt  if  we’ll  be  giving  much  away, 
Bruce,  but  in  any  case,  this  might  be  valu- 
able later  on.  Our  calculator  might  find  a 
method  of  counteracting  that  electro-stasis 
field  of  the  rats.” 

“I  don’t  see  how!”  Bruce  commented  as 
he  slammed  the  car  door. 

RANAS  answered.  “I  don’t  mean  ours. 
I mean  a later  development.  Suppose 
in  ten  years  from  now,  an  electro-colloidal 
calculator  built  on  our  principal,  were  given 
all  the  data  on  that  stasis  field,  for  example, 
a formula  with  an  inoperative  generator 
stated  as  part  of  the  equation.  Wouldn’t  the 
brain  carry  the  formula  to  its  logical  con- 
clusion? After  all,  an  adding  machine 
doesn’t  have  to  understand  the  term,  two 
plus  two. 

“That’s  all  just  wishful  thinking,”  Bruce 
replied.  “A  problem  as  complex  as  that 
would  at  least  call  for  comprehension  or 
awareness.” 

“It’s  only  your  mind  that  tells  you  that,” 
Dr.  Granas  insisted.  “In  a sense,  our  col- 
loid calculator  does  have  awareness.  There 
is  always  a continuous  flow  of  impulses  be- 
tween all  the  cells,  through  the  main  induc- 
tors. You  might  say  quite  accurately  that  it 
thinks.” 

“Well,  here  we  are,”  Bruce  interrupted. 
“I’ll  let  you  two  out  and  park  the  car.” 

“We’ll  wait  in  front  of  the  building!”  Lois 
called. 

“All  right!” 

Ten  minutes  later,  Bruce  walked  swiftly 
up  to  the  entrance  of  the  building.  “I  don’t 
see  a line  waiting,”  Bruce  smiled.  “Have 
the  rats  lost  their  popularity  so  soon?” 

“I  wish  you’d  be  serious,  Bruce,”  Lois 
cautioned.  “I  don’t  think  this  is  the  least  bit 
funny ! ” 

“Maybe  not,  maybe  not,”  Bruce  replied  as 
they  walked  into  the  building. 

A policeman  gave  them  directions  and 
they  soon  found  their  way  to  the  registration 
office.  Dr.  Granas  picked  out  one  of  the  in- 
terviewing desks  at  which  no  one  was  wait- 
ing. An  oldish  man  was  being  interviewed 


RAT  RACE  79 


by  a uniformed  Cafis. 

“Shall  I go  first?”  Granas  asked,  “or  do 
you  want  to?” 

“It  doesn’t  matter  to  me,”  Bruce  shrugged. 
“Go  ahead.” 

The  oldish  man  arose  and  left  the  desk. 
Dr.  Granas  sat  down  in  the  chair  and  Bruce 
stood  behind 'him. 

The  Cafis  glanced  up  from  the  desk  and 
looked  at  Bruce.  “If  you  will  have  a chair 
over  there,  young  man,  I will  be  with  you 
as  soon  as  I have  finished  with  this  gentle- 
man’s interview-.” 

“We  work  together,”  Dr.  Granas  re- 
marked. “He  might  be  able  to  give  you  in- 
formation that  I can’t.” 

“I  see,”  the  Cafis  said.  “If  you  will  draw 
up  a chair,  then,  w’e  will  proceed.”  The 
rodent  busied  himself  wnth  some  blanks  then 
stared  at  Dr.  Granas.  “ State  your  name,  age 
and  place  of  residence  please.” 

“Doctor  Robert  Granas,  fifty-four,  thirty- 
four-o-three  Hudson  Terrace.” 

“Your  profession.” 

“Bio-chemist.” 

“By  whom  are  you  employed?” 

“We  are  doing  independent  research.” 
“State  the  nature  of  it  briefly,  please.” 
“We  are  preparing  a biological  calculator 
utilizing  a colloid  substance  which  responds 
to  electrical  stimulae  in  known  patterns. 
We—” 

“Doctor,  you  are  attempting  to  mislead  us. 
You  are  making  an  artificial  brain.” 

“Only  1^  a very  broad  definition  could 
you  call  it  a brain,  sir,”  Granas  answered. 

“Let  me  describe  the  device  to  you.  Doc- 
tor,” the  Cafis  said.  “This  device  is  fun- 
damentally a tank,  divided  into  tiny  insu- 
lated compartments.  Each  compartment  has 
a small  opening  between  itself  and  all  of  its 
immediate  neighbors.  You  have  horizontal 
rods  'or  wires  and  vertical  rods  or  wires  pass- 
ing through  the  tank  but  not  directly  con- 
nected to  the  cells. 

“It  seems,  by  induction,  these  pick  up  the 
tiny  impulses.  You  have  an  energizing  solu- 
tion slowly  filtering  through  the  colloid  mass 
which  forms  the  third  pole  of  your  primary 
electrical  system.  Connected  to  this  are  ap- 
propriate amplifiers,  integrators  and/or  vari- 
ous other  devices  which  utilize  the  output  of 
the  brain.” 

Dr.  Granas  listed  to  this  recital  c^en 
mouthed.  “But — but — how  could  you  know ! 
How  could  you  possibly  know ! !” 

“From  my  position,  Doctor  Granas,  it  is 


quite  simple  but  I am  sorry  that  I can  not 
tell  you.  I must,  however,  ask  you  to  stop 
all  work  on  this  device.  Our  technicians  will 
call  at  your  laboratory  this  afternoon.  You 
are  not  to  do  any  further  work  until  you  re- 
ceive their  permission,”  Without  waiting  for 
a reply,  he  turned  to  Bruce.  “Your  name, 
age  and  place  of  residence,  please.” 

“Bruce  MacDonald,  thirty -one,  same  ad- 
dress. I’m  a biologist  and  I plan  to  leave 
here  at  once,  return  to  our  laboratory  and 
w'ork  unceasingly  until  our  device,  as  you 
call  it,  is  finished ! I wouldn’t  advise  you  or 
any  of  your  friends  to  try  and  stop  me.” 

“Mr.  MacDonald.  You  are  being  irra- 
tional.” 

“And  I plan  to  go  right  on  being  irra- 
tional ! Any  attempt  at  interference  and  I 
shall  resort  to  violence.  In  case  you  don’t 
realize  what  I mean,  I will  break  bones  and 
destroy  lives  if  necessary !” 

MJRUCE  jerked  the  appalled  Granas  to  his 
EP  feet  and  catching  Lois  by  the  arm, 
marched  them  out  of  the  building.  Lois  was 
pale  and  Dr.  Granas  trembled  a little.  Bruce, 
however,  took  no  notice  of  anything.  Grim- 
ly, he  led  them  up  the  street.  No  attempt 
was  made  to  stop  them.  A fe\^  minutes  later, 
they  climbed  into  the  car  and  drove  home- 
ward in  silence. 

As  Bruce  was  unlocking  the  door,  Lois 
whispered.  “Bruce,  why  did  you  do  it?  Now 
they’ll  kill  us  all.” 

“I’ve  Ireen  thinking  about  that,”  Bruce 
said,  quietly.  “I  wondered  if  I’d  made  the 
biggest  mistake  of  my  life  and  possibly  my 
last  one — but  I don’t  think  so.  The  more  I 
think  about  it,  the  more  I’m  sure  I han- 
dled the  situation  in  the  only  way  possible.” 

“By  losing  your  temper,  I suppose!” 

“And  our  lives  in  the  balance!”  Granas 
added. 

“No,  you  two!  They  aren’t  going  to  do  a 
thing  to  us!”  Bruce  answered.  “I  think — ” 

“And  you’d  better  think  fast  too!”  Granas 
interrupted,  “because  there’s  a car  stopping 
out  in  front.” 

Lois  dashed  to  the  window'.  “Oh  Bruce, 
they’ve  come!”  she  sobbed.  “What’ll  we 
do!” 

The  trio  fell  silent  as  two  of  the  aliens 
emerged  from  the  car,  said  something  to 
the  human  driver,  and  walked  measuredly 
toward  the  door.  Bruce  opened  it  for  them- 
and  they  stej^d  in  wdthout  comment.  Gran- 
as’ ^es  widened  as  he  recognized  the  face 


STARTLING  STORIES 


80 

and  dress  of  the  Capis  Gan. 

The  Viceroy  turned  and  faced  Bruce.  "I 
am  the  Cafis  Gan.  My  name  is  Atis  Tobe. 
You  are,  I believe,  Bruce  MacDonald.” 

“I  am,”  Bruce  admitted,  trying  not  to 
smile. 

“Something  amuses  you,  Mr.  MacDon- 
ald?” the  observing  Cafis  asked. 

“Yes,”  Bruce  answered.  “I’m  more  or 
less  amused  to  see  that  I guessed  correctly.” 
The  Cafis  Gan  regarded  him  with  an  un- 
winking stare.  “You  have  declined  to  follow 
our  request  to  cease  work.” 

“I  have.” 

“You  realize  that  you  are  being  irrational 
then?” 

“Your  Excellency,”  Bruce  began  with  a 
grin,  “from  your  point  of  view,  I am  com- 
pletely irrational  but  my  behavior  from  the 
human  standpoint  is  not  only  normal  but  you 
will  encounter  it  in  eighty  percent  of  your 
subjects.” 

“That  is  impossible,”  Atis  Tobe  answered.- 
“You  are  a civilized  race.  Such  a thing  will 
not  be  tolerated.” 

“You  have  only  studied  us  for  four  days, 
Your  Excellency,”  Bruce  pointed  out. 

“True,  but  there  are  many  indications  of 
civilization.  Your  own  device,  for  example.” 
“You  have  a point  there,”  Bruce  admit- 
ted, “but  I have  another  device  to  show 
you.”  He  reached  into  his  pocket  and  took 
out  an  automatic. 

Dr.  Granas  clenched  his  hands  and  Lois 
gasped.  “Bruce,  please!”  she  whispered, 
fervently. 

“If  I were  to  pull  this  bit  of  metal  called 
the  trigger,  you  would  die  instantly,”  Bruce 
said  to  the  Cafis  Gan. 

“Assuming  that  is  the  truth,  Mr.  Mac- 
Donald, what  does  it  prove?”  The  Cafis  was 
annoyed. 

“It  proves.  Your  Excellency,  that  with  us, 
destruction  of  life  is  a common  thing.” 

Atis  Tobe  bent  over  and  studied  the  re- 
volver. “Did  you  make  this?” 

“No,”  Bruce  answered.  “Nearly  every 
human  possesses  a gun  and  sometimes  uses 
it.  These  are  made  in  huge  quantities,  each 
one  adapted  to  a specific  purpose.  This  one 
is  expressly  designed  for  use  on  humans.  It 
would  work  equally  well  on  you  also.” 

The  Cafis  Gan  continued  to  stare  at  the 
gun.  “What  is  the  principle?” 

“It’s  a simple  heat  engine,”  Bruce  replied. 
“Chemical  reaction  generates  a high  gas 
pressure  which  forces  a metal  pellet  through 


this  tube.  The  velocity  of  the  bit  of  metal  or 
bullet  will  cause  it  to  penetrate  a body,  rup- 
turing its  internal  organs  where  it  strikes.” 
Atis  Tobe  had  apparently  been  practising 
his  smile  for  this  one  was  not  nearly  so  grue- 
some. “Your  explanation,  Mr.  MacDonald, 
is  most  ingenious.  For  a moment,  I almost 
believed  you.” 

Bruce  lined  the  gun  up  at  point  blank 
range  and  squeezed  the  trigger.  The 
report  was  deafening  in  the  small  room.  A 
metal  insigne  ripped  off  the  shoulder  of  the 
uniform  of  the  Cafis  Gan.  The  Viceroy  felt 
of  the  torn  fabric  and  turned  to  look  at  the 
wall  behind.  It  was  almost  imperceptible  but 
Bruce  detected  a faint  quiver  in  the  rodent’s 
talonlike  hand. 

“Almost  you  have  convinced  me,”  the 
Cafis  said  slowly. 

“Lois,”  Bruce  said.  “Will  you  get  that 
package  from  the  butcher  shop?  It’s  in  the 
refrigerator  behind  the  milk.” 

“What?”  Lois  asked,  confused. 

“Get  me  our  latest  purchase  from  the 
butcher  shop,”  Bruce  repeated,  distinctly. 

Lois  hurried  to  the  kitchen  and  returned 
a moment  later  with  a package  wrapp>ed  in 
white  paper.  She  extended  it  timidly  to 
Bruce.  He  ripped  it  open  with  the  muzzle  of 
his  automatic  and  removed  a two  inch  thick, 
round  steak  from  the  wrapper.  Slowly, 
Bruce  extended  the  dripping  steak  to  the 
Viceroy. 

The  rodent  man  recoiled  a little.  “A  speci- 
man,  Mr.  MacDonald?”  he  asked. 

“No,”  Bruce  replied,  trying  to  leer. 
"Food!" 

Atis  Tobe  winced  and  covered  his  eyes.  In 
a moment  he  recovered  his  composure  and 
turned  to  stare  at  Dr.  Granas.  “Is  all  this 
the  truth?” 

Granas  nodded  his  head.  “I’m  afraid  it 
is.  Your  Excellency.” 

“How  horrible!  How  depraved !” 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  as  Bruce 
placed  the  steak  back  in  its  wrapper  and 
handed  it  to  Lois. 

“I  believe  we  have  made  a terrible  mis- 
take,” the  Cafis  Gan  Sciid,  weakly.  “It  is  in- 
credible that  such  barbarism  can  exist  among 
thinking  creatures ! ” His  body  twitched.  He 
turned  and  walked  to  the  door.  In  stupefied 
silence,  the  trio  watched  the  two  Cafis  leave. 
The  rodents  paused  at  the  car  and  stared  at 
the  human  driver.  Almost  fearfully,  they 
stepped  in  and  drove  off. 


RAT  RACE 


Lois  turned  from  the  window.  “What  are 
they  going  to  do  now?”  she  asked,  wring- 
ing her  hands. 

“I  imagine  their  full  time  occupation  from 
now  on  will  be  leaving  the  earth  and  trying 
to  forget  it  as  soon  as  possible,”  Bruce  an- 
swered, smiling. 

Dr.  Granas  shook  his  head.  “I  don’t  un- 
derstand this  at  all,”  he  said.  “What’s  going 
on?” 

“It’s  quite  simple.  Uncle  Bob,”  Bruce  re- 
plied. “The  Cafis  thought  we  were  civilized. 
In  fact,  I don’t  think  they’ve  ever  come 
across  an  uncivilized  race  before.” 

“What  do  you  mean,  uncivilized !”  Granas 
bristled. 

“Civilization  is  a pretty  relative  term,” 
Bruce  answered.  “To  us,  we  are  civilized. 
To  the  Cafis,  however,  we  are  monsters.  You 
see,  the  Cafis  don’t  kill.  Their  understand- 
ing of  the  term  ‘war’  is  a sort  of  a contest, 
certainly  not  bloodshed.” 

“But  they’re  a conquering  race!”  Granas 
objected.  “How  can  they  do  it  without  blood- 
shed?” 

“I’m  not  entirely  sure,”  Bruce  replied, 
thoughtfully.  “I’m  only  guessing  but  so  far, 
my  guesses  have  been  pretty  good.  My  the- 
ory is  that  the  rest  of  their  empire  is  much 
like  themselves.  You  yourself  remarked  that 
it  was  only  an  accident  that  the  rodents 
didn’t  become  the  predominant  race  here  on 
earth.” 

“That’s  true,”  Dr.  Granas  admitted. 

“I  think  we  can  assume,  that  up  until 
now,  the  Cafis  have  only  had  to  deal  with 
races  similar  to  themselves.  When  they  came 
here,  they  carried  on  their  vrarfare  just  as 
they  always  have  done.  I bet  the  rest  of  their 
empire  considers  them  pretty  ruthless  con- 
querors.” 

“I  don’t  see  what  )ma’re  getting  at!” 
Granas  exploded. 


81 

“I  got  the  clue  last  night.  Uncle  Bob,” 
Bruce  continued,  “when  Atis  Tobe  turned 
his  head.  I thought  about  it  for  a long  time 
and  finally  decided  that  I was  right.  I 
guessed  that  they  were  non-carnivores  and 
were  therefore  unaccustomed  to  violence  and 
bloodshed.  It  was  so  unheard  of  to  them, 
that  they  didn’t  for  one  minute  expect  to 
find  a carnivorous  civilization. 

“Look  at  how  they  conquered  the  earth. 
Not  by  killing  I Their  weapons  are  of  a dif- 
ferent type.  They  paralyze  a civilization  and 
give  you  a chance  to  nullify  the  weapon  and 
if  you  can’t  do  it,  they  win.  If  you  can  com- 
bat their  weapon,  then  they  think  up  a new 
one  and  on  it  goes  until  someone’s  resources 
are  exhausted.”  , 

“Well — well — ^how  did  you  know  they 
were  so  peaceful?”  Lois  stammered.  “Rats 
here  on  earth  are  vicious — and  horrible!” 

RUCE  laughed.  “Darling,  that’s  what 
comes  from  jumping  to  conclusions. 
The  Cafis  are  rodents  to  be  sure,  but  as 
rodents  go,  rats  are  certainly  not  the  most 
intelligent ! ” 

“Well  these  rats  are  certainly  intelligent!” 
Granas  interrupted. 

“Not  rats.  Uncle  Bob,”  Bruce  replied, 
grinning.  “Beavers !” 

“Not  exactly,”  a loud  voice  boomed. 

The  trio  stood  frozen,  staring  at  each 
other. 

“W-h-a-t?”  Granas  said,  weakly. 

“I  said,  not  exactly.”  The  voice  rumbled 
through  the  open  door  of  the  laboratory. 

There  was  a momentary  mad  scramble  as 
they  all  tried  to  go  through  the  laboratory 
door  at  one  time.  Their  eyes  took  in  the 
empty  roc«n  at  a glance  then  rested  on  the 
loudspeaker  of  the  calculator.  They  waited, 
hardly  breathing. 

“Rabbits!”  the  calculator  said. 


COMING  m THE  NEXT  ISSUE 

THE  ISOTOPE  MEN 

A Hcdl  of  Fame  Classic  by  FESTUS  PRAGNEUL 


Only  a quartet  of  Eartbmen  stood  between  the  Mercurian 

invaders  and  planetary  conquest!  A Hall  of  Fame  novelet 


TETHAUEDHA 


CHAPTER  I 
Jungle  Crack-up 

A MOON  of  mottled  silver  swam  in 
the  star-flecked  sky,  pouring  its  flood 
of  pale  light  over  the  sea  of  blue- 
green  vegetation  that  swelled  up  and  up  in  a 
mighty,  slow  wave  to  break  in  the  foaming 
crest  of  the  Andes. 

The  shadow  of  my  plane  raced  far  below, 
dipping  into  the  troughs,  breasting  the  sum- 
mits of  that  vast,  unbroken  sea  of  emerald 

Copyright  1931,  by  Go, 


Stretching  on  and  on  beyond  reach  of  vision. 
Night  had  caught  me  unawares,  and  it  is  no 
simple  matter  to  lay  down  supplies  in  a little 
clearing,  marked  only  by  a flickering  camp- 
fire, lost  somewhere  among  the  jungles  of 
Brazil. 

Or  was  it  Brazil  ? Here  three  great  states 
mingled  in  an  upland  of  forest  and  mountain 
and  grassy  valley — Peru,  Bolivia,  Brazil. 

bach  PublicatUms,  Inc. 


Here  ancient  races  had  made  their  home, 
raised  their  massive  temples  in  the  little 
valleys,  wrested  a fortune  from  the  moun- 
tains, given  their  lives  to  the  jungles — a 
people  more  ancient  by  far  than  those  others 
beyond  the  ranges  whom  the  Incas  con- 
quered. Here  none  had  come  before  to  study, 
yet  now,  somewhere  in  the  gloom  beneath 
me,  was  a little  oval  valley  hung  mid-way 


By  SCHLYLEB  NILLEB 

between  crag  and  forest,  and  there  would  be 
the  tents  and  fires  of  scientists,  men  of  my 
own  world. 

But  there  came  no  glimmer  of  flame  in  the 
darkness,  no  flicker  of  white  tents  in  the 
moonlight.  Alone  the  outflung  cross  of  the 
plane  swam  the  unbroken  sea  of  green,  dark 
and  boding  against  its  wan  beauty.  It  takes 
little  error  of  judgment  to  miss  a tiny  clear- 


83 


s?  Startling  stories 


ing  in  the  dark.  So,  as  the  western  ranges 
crept  out  of  their  alignment,  I swooped  and 
soared,  and  was  roaring  back,  higher  now, 
over  the  silent  moon-lit  forests. 

I had  seen  one  gap  in  the  jungle — a harsh, 
black  scar  seared  by  some  great  fire  from  the 
bowels  of  the  planet,  ugly  and  grim  in  the 
soft  beauty  of  the  night.  Again  it  slipped 
beneath,  and  as  the  shadow  of  the  plane 
vanished  against  its  blackness,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  there  came  a scurry  of  furtive 
motion,  an  instant’s  flicker  of  shadow  against 
its  deeper  gloom. 

I half  checked  the  course  of  the  plane,  to 
wheel  and  search  it  closer,  then  of  a sudden 
the  air  about  me  blazed  with  a dull  crimson 
fire  that  burned  into  my  body  with  a numb- 
ing fury  of  unleashed  energy,  the  drone  of 
the  engines  gasped  and  died  and  we  were 
spinning  headlong  toward  the  silver  sea  be- 
neath ! 

As  it  had  come,  the  tingjing  paralysis 
passed  and  I flattened  out  the  dive  of  the 
crippled  plane,  cut  the  ignition  and  dived 
over  the  side.  As  in  a dream  I felt  the  jerk 
of  the  parachute,  saw  the  deserted  plane,  like 
a huge,  wounded  bat  of  the  jungles,  swoop 
again  in  a long  flat  dive  that  broke  and  pan- 
caked into  the  upper  reaches  of  the  forest. 

Then  the  heavy  pendulum  of  my  body 
alone  beat  out  the  dull  seconds  as  I swung 
and  twisted  beneath  the  silken  hemisphere  of 
the  ’chute.  And  then  the  leafy  boughs,  no 
longer  silver  but  like  hungry,  clutching  talons 
of  Wack  horror,  swept  up  and  seized  me. 

The  rain-forest  is  like  a mighty  roof 
stretched  over  the  valleys  of  tropical 
America.  Interlacing  branches  blot  out  the 
sun  from  a world  of  damp  and  rotting  dark, 
where  great  mottled  serpents  writhe  among 
tangled  branches  and  greater  vines  strangle 
the  life  out  of  giants  of  the  forest  in  the  end- 
less battle  for  light.  , 

And  there  are  little,  venomous  things  of 
the  dark  ways — savage  two-inch  ants  with 
fire  in  their  bite,  tiny  snakelets  whose  parti- 
colored beauty  masks  grim  death — creatures 
of  the  upper  reaches  and  of  the  glorious 
world  above  the  tree-tops. 

With  the  sunrise,  a blaze  of  life  and  flam- 
ing color  breaks  over  the  roof  of  the  jungle — 
flame  of  orchid  and  of  macaw,  and  of  the 
great,  gaudy  butterflies  of  this  upper  world. 
Beneath,  there  comes  but  a brightening  of 
the  green  gloom  to  a wan  half-light  in  which 
dim  horrors  seem  to  lurk  and  creep  and 


watch,  and  giant  lianas  twist  and  climb  up 
and  ever  up  to  the  living  light. 

The  sun  was  an  hour  gone  when  I fell  but 
it  was  not  until  its  second  coming  when  I 
managed  to  writhe  and  slip  through  the  tan- 
gle as  if  I too  were  of  the  jungle,  moving 
toward  the  spot  where  my  memory  placed 
that  blasted  clearing,  and  the  light.  And  with 
the  deepening  of  the  gloom  in  the  upper 
branches  I came  upon  it,  quite  by  accident, 
from  above. 

It  was  a little  valley,  perhaps  a mile  long 
and  two  thirds  as  wide,  lying  in  an  oval  of 
gittering  jet  against  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tains. Here  the  Andes  were  beginning  their 
swift  climb  up  from  the  jungles  to  the  snows 
and  beneath  me  fifty-foot  cliffs  of  sheer  black 
dropped  to  the  valley  floor. 

I have  spoken  of  it  as  blasted,  seared  into 
the  living  heart  of  the  jungle.  It  was  all  of 
that,  and  more ! There  was  a gentleness  in 
its  rocky  slopes  that  spoke  of  centuries  of 
hungry  plant-life,  prying  and  tearing  at  jag- 
ged ledges,  crumbling  giant  boulders,  dying 
and  laying  down  a soft,  rich  blanket  of  humus 
over  the  harsh,  under-rock,  forming  a little 
garden-spot  of  life  and  light  in  the  dark  heart 
of  the  forest. 

Then  came  fire — an  awful,  scourging  blast 
of  fierce  heat  that  even  Man’s  Hell  cannot 
equal ! It  blasted  that  little  valley,  seared  its 
verdant  beauty  horribly,  crumbling  blossoms 
and  long  grasses  into  dead  white  ash,  strip- 
ping the  rich  soil  of  past  ages  from  its  sleep- 
ing rocks,  fusing  those  rocks  into  a harsh 
glittering  slag.  The  sheer  cliffs,  once  draped 
with  a delicate  tracery  of  flowered  tendrils, 
had  cloven  away  under  the  terrible  heat,  split 
off  in  huge  slabs  of  the  living  rock  that  had 
toppled  into  the  holocaust  beneath  and  died 
with  the  valley. 

The  few  thin  shrubs  that  screened  me  at 
their  summit  showed  blackened,  blistered 
leaves  and  twigs,  though  here  the  heat  had 
been  least.  As  no  other  spot  on  Eartlr  that 
little  upland  valley  was  terribly  dead,  yet  at 
its  center  something  moved ! 

Eagerly  I peered  through  the  gathering 
dusk.  Full  and  golden,  the  moon  was  rising 
over  the  forest,  throwing  new  shadows  across 
the  valley  floor,  brightening  new  corners,  re- 
vealing new  motion.  It  wakened  a lustrous 
opalescence  in  the  two  great  spheres  that 
nestled  like  mighty  twin  pearls  against  the 
dark  rock,  to  create  beings  of  the  rock  and  of 
the  shadow,  gliding  wraithlike  among  the 
shattered  boulders! 


TETRAHEDRA  OF  SPACE 


85 


Painfully  I crept  through  the  dense  growth 
of  the  brink,  nearer  to  those  great  spheres 
and  their  dreadful  cargo.  Now  I could  see 
them  clearly,  rank  on  rank  of  them  in  order- 
ly file,  some  hundred  of  them,  strewn  in  great 
concentric  rings  about  the  softly  glowing 
spheres — great,  glittering  tetrahedra — tetra- 
hedra  of  terror  \ 

They  were  tetrahedra,  and  they  were  alive. 
They  stirred  restlessly  in  their  great  circles, 
uneasy  in  the  dim  light.  Here  and  there  little 
groups  formed,  and  sometimes  they  clicked 
together  in  still  other  monstrous  geometric 
shapes,  yet  always  they  moved  with  an  un- 
canny stillness,  darting  with  utter  sureness 
among  the  scattered  rocks. 

And  now  from  the  nearer  of  the  twin 
spheres  came  another  of  their  kind,  yet  twice 
their  size,  the  pearly  walls  opening  and  clos- 
ing as  by  thought-magic  for  his  passing ! He 
swept  forward  a little,  into  the  full  light  of 
the  moon,  and  the  rings  followed  him,  cen- 
tered about  him,  until  the  spheres  lay  beyond 
the  outermost  and  the  giant  tetrahedron 
faced  alone  the  hosts  of  his  lesser  fellows ! 

Then  came  their  speech — of  all  things  the 
most  mind-wracking!  I felt  it  deep  within 
my  brain  before  I sensed  it  externally,  a 
dull  heavy  rhythm  of  insistent  throbbing, 
beating  at  my  temples  and  throwing  up  a dull 
red  haze  before  my  staring  eyes! 

You  have  heard  those  deepest  notes  of  a 
great  organ,  when  the  windows  tremble,  even 
the  walls,  the  building  itself,  vibrate  in  re- 
sonance, beat  and  beat  and  beat  to  its  rhythm 
until  you  feel  it  throbbing  against  your  skull. 

UCH  was  the  speech  of  the  tetrahedra, 
only  deeper  still  beneath  the  threshold 
of  sound — so  deep  that  each  tiny  nerve  of  the 
skin  sensed  its  monotonous  pressure  and 
shouted  it  to  a reeling  brain — so  deep  that  it 
seemed  like  a great  surf  of  more-than-sound 
thundering  dismally  against  desolate,  rocky 
shores ! 

I think  now  that  it  was  a sort  of  chant,  the 
concerted  cry  of  all  the  scores  of  tetrahedra, 
dinning  savagely,  angrily  at  their  giant  leader 
in  a dismal  plaint  of  discontent  and  unease! 
I think  they  were  restless,  aware  of  unful- 
filled promises  and  purposes,  anxious  to 
make  sure  their  misison  or  to  be  gone. 

For  soon  I sensed  a deeper,  stronger  voice 
beating  against  the  din,  drowning  it  out, 
thundering  command  and  reproof,  shouting 
down  the  mob  until  its  lesser  drumming  sank 
to  a mutter  and  ceased.  But  the  voice  of  the 


SOME  stories  are  forgot- 
ten almost  as  soon  as 
they  are  printed.  Others 
stand  the  test  of  time. 

Because  “Tetrahedra  of 
Space,”  by  P.  Schuyler  Mil- 
ler, has  stood  this  test,  it 
has  been  nominated  for 
SCIENTIFICTION’S  HALL 
OF  FAME  and  is  reprinted  here. 

In  each  issue  we  will  honor  one  of  the  most  out- 
standing fantasy  classics  of  all  time  as  selected  by 
our  readers. 

We  hope  in  this  way  to  bring  a new  permanence 
to  the  science  fiction  gems  of  yesterday  and  to  per- 
form a real  service  to  the  science  fiction  devotees 
of  today  and  tomorrow. 

Nominate  your  own  favorites!  Send  a letter  or 
postcard  to  The  Editor,  STARTLING  STORIES,  10 
East  40th  St.,  New  York  16,  N.  Y.  All  suggestions 
are  more  than  welcome! 


giant  tetrahedron  rang  on,  inflected  now  as 
our  own  voices,  rising  and  falling  in  angry 
speech  and  command,  pouring  out  burning 
sarcasm,  perhaps,  cowing  them  with  its 
greater  insistence ! 

Like  all  good  leaders,  his  followers  were  as 
children  to  him,  and  the  hard,  harsh  beat  of 
sound  swept  off  into  a soothing,  cajoling 
murmur  of  whispering  ripples,  yet  none  the 
less  dominant  and  definite  in  its  message. 
And  it  sank  to  a far,  hinting  rumble  and 
vanished. 

For  a long  instant  they  lay  quiet,  like 
graven  things  of  the  stone  itself,  then  through 
the  circles,  like  a spreading  wave,  rose  a 
thrill  of  slow  motion,  quickening,  livening, 
until  all  were  astir!  The  ranks  parted,  the 
giant  tetrahedron  swept  swiftly  over  the 
valley  floor  to  the  two  great  spheres,  his 
angular  hordes  flowing  in  swift,  soft  motion 
in  his  wake!  Again,  with  that  speed  and 
silent  mystery  of  thought,  the  spheres  gaped 
open  and  the  ranks  of  the  tetrahedra  were 
swallowed  up  within ! 

For  a long  moment  I lay  there  under  the 
bushes  at  the  cliff’s  edge,  staring  out  over  the 
valley,  stunned  by  the  weird  unreality  of  the 
thing  I had  seen.  Then,  out  of  the  dark  be- 
hind me,  came  a hand,  gripping  my  shoulder 
in  a vise  of  iron ! Mad  with  sudden  terror  I 
twisted  free,  struck  blindly  at  the  thing  that 
had  seized  me,  a thing  that  spoke,  its  words 
a hoarse  mutter  that  barely  penetrated  the 
gloom ! 

“For  God’s  sake,  man,  be  still!  Do  you 
want  them  to  hear?” 

It  was  a man — a human  like  myself.  My 


STARTLING  STORIES 


86 

frozen  tongue  stammered  reply. 

“Who  are  you  ? What  are  those  things  out 
there?  What  Hell  of  Earth  did  they  spring 
from  ?” 

“None  of  Earth,  you  may  rest  sure !”  came 
the  grim  answer.  “But  we  will  tell  you  all 
that  later.  We  must  get  clear  of  this  pla<^! 
I am  Marston  of  the  Museum  expedition — 
the  biologist.  I suppose  you  are  the  aviator — 
Valdez  saw  them  burn  you  down  last  night. 
Follow  me.” 

“Yes,  I’m  Hawkins.  The  plane  is  some- 
where over  there,  if  it  didn’t  burn,  with  all 
your  supplies  in  it.  But  tell  me,  first — those 
things,  there — are  they  alive  1” 

“You’ve  wondered  that?  I suppose  anyone 
would.  The  Indians  make  them  gods  of  a 
kind — realize  they’re  beyond  all  experience 
and  tradition.  But  I’m  a biologist.  I have  had 
some  experience  in  strange  forms  of  life. 
They  are  as  much  alive  as  we — perhaps  even 
more  than  we.  But  this  is  no  place  to  moralize 
— come  on!” 

He  vanished  into  the  dark  and  I followed, 
plunging  blindly  after  the  sound  of  his  crash- 
ing progress,  away  from  the  seared  valley 
and  the  tetrahedra,  to  saftey  of  a sort  in  the 
sombre  depths  of  tire  rain-forest. 

They  crouched  beside  a tiny  fire  of  bark 
and  twigs — two  gaunt  skeletons  hung  and 
swathed  with  soiled  rags,  brooding  over  their 
pitiful  little  flame.  With  the  crackle  of  our 
approach  they  sprang  at  bay — two  hunted 
things  of  the  jungle — then  relaxed  as  we 
came  into  the  firelight. 

I will  always  remember  them  as  I saw 
them  then — Hornby,  the  Museum  archaeolo- 
gist, tall,  grey-haired,  his  haggard  face 
seamed  with  deep  wrinkles  of  sleeplessness 
and  fear  and  puzzled  wonderment.  Valdez, 
his  colleague  of  the  government  that  had  sent 
me,  short,  dark,  big  Portuguese  blood 
blended  with  that  of  the  squat  tribes  of  the 
interior.  He  seemed  plumper  than  the  others, 
and  I felt  that  he  could  and  would  care  for 
himself  very  well  if  need  be. 

OW,  too,  I saw  my  guide  for  the  first 
time  as  something  more  than  a black 
hulk  in  blackness.  Marston,  the  biologist, 
looked  like  an  old-time  blacksmith,  a mas- 
sive man  of  bone  and  muscle,  with  keen  grey 
eyes  under  heavy  brows  and  the  beginnings 
oi  a mighty  beard. 

“We're  all  there  are,  Hawkins,”  he  rum- 
bled. “We’ve  got  to  find  that  plane  soon  if 
it’s  still  whole.  Did  you  see  flames,  Valdez?” 


“Flames,  Senor  Marston?  No — I saw 
merely  the  falling  of  the  plane,  like  a great 
wounded  bird  seeking  the  shelter  of  the 
jungles,  and  Senor — Hawkins,  is  it? — with 
his  parachute.  I am  not  certain  that  I can 
find  it,  now  that  a day  and  a night  have 
passed,  but  I will  try.  ” 

Then  Hornby's  voice — dry  and  withered 
as  his  shrunken  body — weary  as  his  tired  old 
eyes.  “You  have  seen  the  tetrahedra,  lieu- 
tenant Hawkins?  You  realize  that  they  are 
living,  intelligent  beings?  You  can  com- 
phehend  the  menace  of  their  presence  here  on 
our  Earth?” 

“Yes,  Professor,”  I answered  slowly,  “I 
have  seen  them  and  heard  them.  They  have 
a great  leader,  twice  the  size  of  any  of  them, 
and  the  rest  seem  to  be  dissatisfied  with  the 
way  he  is  running  things.” 

“You  hear  that,  Marston?”  cried  the  Pro- 
fessor, almost  savagely.  “You  hear — they  are 
impatient — they  will  act  soon,  as  soon  as  they 
have  fed  again!  We  must  do  something, 
Marston — ^we  must  act  now — !” 

“Yes,  I saw  them  too,”  said  Marston 
slowly.  “They’re  on  the  brink,  all  right. 
But  I don’t  know  what  we  can  do — four 
men  with  three  rifles  and  a couple  of  ma- 
chetes against  a hundred  of  them.” 

“Marston,”  I put  in  eagerly,  “if  it’s  gtms 
you  want,  there  are  two  machine-guns  and 
plenty  of  ammunition  in  the  plane — it  was  a 
government  ship,  fresh  from  the  uprising  in 
the  North.  If  we  can  find  that,  there’ll  be 
guns  as  well  as  food.” 

“Valdez — you  hear  that?  Can  you  help 
him  search?  You  are  the  one  who  saw  him 
fall  and  you  have  been  out  with  the  Indians 
more  than  once.  How  about  it?” 

“Very  well,  Senor  Marston,  I will  do  what 
J can.  But  do  not  hope  for  too  much — re- 
member, there  has  been  a day  and  a night 
and  I had  only  a glimpse.  And  the  guns — 
what  can  they  do  against  those  devils  from 
the  spheres?  We  would  do  better  to  flee, 
and  warn  the  world  of  what  has  come  upon 
it!” 

“I’ve  heard  that  stuff  preached  before, 
Valdez.  Stow  it ! If  it  comes  to  announcing 
them  to  the  world  those  things  will  do  it  for 
themselves  faster  than  we  could ! You’ll  hunt 
with  Hawkins  in  the  morning!” 

Professor  Hornby  had  said  little.  Now,  at 
Marten’s  words,  he  roused  again. 

“Marston,”  Iris  voice  came  petulantly, 
“have  you  seen  the  Indians  in  the  forest  as  I 
have  ? Have  you  seen  them,  felt  them  staring 


TETRAHEDRA  OF  SPACE  87 


at  your  back,  fingering  their  little  darts  in  the 
dark?  Marston,  they  take  those  tetrahedra 
for  gods — things  to  worship  and  propitiate 
with  sacrifice ! The  forest  is  full  of  them — I 
feel  it — I can  tell!  Marston,  what  are  they 
doing?” 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Coming  of  the  Tetrahedra 


MARSTON'S  bluff  rumble  drowned 
out  that  final  wail.  “Sure,  Prof, 
they’re  here,  all  right — all  about  us,  out  there 
in  the  jungle  with  the  beasts.  But  they’re 
harmless — just  inquisitive,  that’s  all.  It’s  the 
things  yonder  that  draw  them.  It’s  a legend 
come  true,  for  them.  They’re  not  apt  to  hurt 
us  for  a while  yet  but  it  won’t  hurt  to  slip 
closer  to  the  valley,  where  we  can  watch 
the  things.” 

Then  Valdez  slipped  in  his  acid  wedge  of 
dissent,  smoothly  and  blandly  as  ever. 

“You  remember,  of  course,  SenorMarston, 
that  these  poor  Indios  retain  the  supersti- 
tions of  their  ancient  masters,  and  that  in 
time  of  peril  it  was  the  way  of  the  Old  People 
to  make  blood  sacrifice  to  their  gods.  Old 
customs  linger  long  among  savages,  Senor ! ” 
“We’re  staying  and  we’re  fighting,  just 
as  soon  as  you  and  Hawkins  locate  those 
guns,  which  is  tomorrow.  Your  memory 
will  improve  with  a little  sleep,  I think.  And, 
Prof — I reckon  Hawkins  here  would  like  to 
hear  about  those  things  yonder.  Tell  him 
what  there  is  to  tell.” 

And  so,  huddled  there  by  the  tiny,  flicker- 
ing fire,  I listened  as  the  thin,  dry  voice  of 
the  old  Professor  marched  through  the  awful 
story  of  the  coming  of  the  tetrahedra. 

They  had  come  to  the  little  valley  in  the 
hills,  three  white  men  and  a half-dozen  In- 
dian guides  from  the  more  civilized  tribes  to 
the  north.  Here  in  its  oval  bowl  they  had 
made  their  camp  among  flowers  and  waving 
grasses,  with  the  dark  rampart  of  the  jungle 
standing  about  them  like  the  walls  of  a 
prison.  And  from  those  walls  came  the  In- 
dians of  the  forests — poor,  savage  creatures 
hag-ridden  by  superstition  and  ignorance, 
wracked  by  famine  and  disease. 

They  treasured  weird  legends  and  aborted 
ceremonies  where  understanding  of  other 
things  had  passed.  But  they  bore  memories 


of  things  that  even  the  savage  mind  can  pon- 
der, memories  of  magic  and  ritual  and  the 
adoration  of  fierce  and  powerful  gods. 

As  the  newer  magic  of  this  younger,  paler 
race  gripped  their  childish  minds,  they  told 
of  the  things  that  their  fathers  before  them 
had  learned  of  grandfathers  through  the 
centuries,  tales  not  only  of  custom  and  life 
in  those  long-gone  days,  but  of  cities  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  rain-forest,  cities  of  massive 
stone  and  untarnishing  metal — “the  metal  of 
the  Sun,”  that  sleeps  in  long,  fat  serpents  in 
the  white  rock  of  the  mountains. 

Then,  one  day — and  Professor  Hornby’s 
hoarse  voice  sank  almost  to  a whisper  as  he 
told  of  it — there  came  the  little  group  of 
savages  who  were  to  lead  the  way  to  the 
buried  ruins  of  a great  city,  four  little  brown 
men  with  blow-guns  and  deadly  darts,  wait- 
ing patiently  for  the  great  White  Ones  to 
take  up  their  magic  and  follow. 

Hornby  had  stepped  to  the  door  of  his 
tent  to  call  their  chieftain  to  conference  and, 
as  he  went  he  gazed  up  at  the  towering 
Andes.  There,  drifting  like  wind-tossed  bub- 
bles just  above  the  tree-tops,  floated  the 
spheres  of  the  tetrahedra ! 

Gently  they  sank  to  rest  at  the  other  end 
of  the  little  valley — lay  there  in  the  thick 
grass  like  the  eggs  of  some  huge  moth  out 
of  fable.  The  Indians  had  fled  in  terror  but, 
as  Hardy  and  Marston  raced  down  the  slope 
toward  the  twin  globes,  they  sensed  that 
furtive  eyes  were  peering  from  the  under- 
growth, half-fearful,  half-wondering,  waiting 
with  timeless  patience  for  new  magic — new 
masters. 

The  three  came  to  the  spheres  as  they  lay 
there  in  the  lush  grass— Hornby,  Marston, 
Valdez — and  in  each  heart  must  have  been 
something  of  the  wonder  that  I in  my  turn 
had  felt.  For  the  spheres  were  unbroken  by 
any  opening,  were  as  twin  orbs  hewn  from 
mother-of-pearl.  Yet  there  came  a force  from 
them,  a tingling  of  excess  energy  that  thrilled 
in  every  nerve  and  set  their  minds  on  edge 
with  unwonted  keenness  I 

®T  GREW  in  strength,  slowly,  and  it  was 
Marston  who  first  sensed  its  lurking 
hostility,  who  turned  his  gaze  from  the  enig- 
matic spheres  to  see  the  long  grasses  about 
their  bases  wither  and  shrivel  to  soft  grey 
ash  under  the  blasting  radiation!  It  was  he 
who  cried  the  alarm,  and  in  sudden  panic 
they  fled  a little  way  up  the  valley,  to  stand 
like  startled  sheep,  then  flee  anew  as  the 


88  STARTLING  STORIES 


surge  of  energy  poured  forth  in  ever-quick- 
ening pulses  from  the  opal  spheres. 

It  swept  all  life  before  it  into  sudden, 
luxuriant  growth  that  as  suddenly  dropped 
into  blighted  destruction ! Beside  their  tents, 
nearly  in  the  shadow  of  the  brooding  forest, 
they  stood  at  last  and  watched  the  slow  tor- 
rent sweep  the  life  of  their  valley  home  into 
the  sullen  ash  of  death.  And  then  its  in- 
visible van  drifted  up  the  slope  to  their  feet, 
and  again  its  subtle  venom  thrilled  evilly  in 
their  veins,  and  tliey  ran  crazily,  headlong, 
into  the  jungle ! 

But  they  could  not  long  shun  the  brain- 
troubling  enigma  that  had  engulfed  their 
little  home.  Marston,  Hornby,  Valdez — 
they  struggled  back  and  stared  from  the 
damp  dark  of  the  forest  at  the  thing  that  was 
happening  there  in  the  sunlit  oval  on  the 
mountainside. 

Then  it  was  that  Marston  broke  the  spell 
of  fear  that  had  been  laid  upon  him — seized 
rifles,  blankets,  food  from  the  deserted  tents 
in  the  ebbing  of  the  invisible  waves,  and  fled 
again  as  the  second  billow  of  devastation 
poured  from  the  silent  spheres ! Then,  for  a 
time,  there  came  a lull — a peace  almost  of  the 
days  and  hours  when  this  little  spot  of  light 
in  the  green  dark  was  the  home  of  happy, 
busy  men — almost,  yet  not  quite! 

For  there  was  a boding  in  it,  an  ominous 
sense  of  oppression,  a tension  of  the  very 
ether,  a stress  that  spread  to  mind  and  brain 
and  sucked  hungrily  at  the  dazed  conscious- 
ness ! 

And  they  were  not  wrong,  for  of  a 
sudden,  with  an  awful  violence  that  shook 
even  the  stolid  Marston,  the  storm  burst  in 
its  full  fury. 

In  a great  beating  sea  of  horrid  flame  it 
lashed  the  oval  valley,  driving  into  the  soil, 
into  the  very  rock,  waking  them  into  an 
angry  answer  of  leaping,  burning  crimson 
fires.  The  fires  swept  the  thin  black  soil  from 
the  underlying  rock  and  scored  the  naked 
face  of  the  rock  itself  with  an  awful  furnace 
of  consuming  fury. 

And  through  the  curtain  where  fire  of 
heavens  and  fire  of  Earth  met  in  that  terrible 
holocaust,  those  three  saw  the  curving  flames 
of  the  twin  spheres  gape  wide,  saw  huge 
angular  shapes  file  from  the  darkness  within 
— shapes  never  yet  associated  in  the  mind  of 
Man  with  the  meaning  of  life  I They  were  of 
a purple  that  seemed  to  be  of  the  essence  of 
the  things  themselves,  rather  than  a pig- 
mentation of  their  surface;  and  near  one 


apex  each  had  two  green-yellow  unstaring, 
unseeing  eyes! 

Within  them  one  glimpsed  a spherical 
body — purple  too — from  which  ran  hundreds 
of  curious  filaments  to  the'  smooth  surfaces. 
Tetrahedra  they  were — living  tetrahedra  of 
chilling  terror  that  feared  neither  flame  nor 
lightning  and  spread  destruction  on  every 
side ! 

“I  cannot  tell  you  of  the  feeling  that  came 
to  me,”  the  weary,  dried-out  voice  of  the 
Professor  droned  despairingly  on.  “Here  was 
a power  absolutely  at  odds  to  all  the  great, 
painfully  evolved  civilization  of  mankind,  a 
power  that  could  and  would  crush  us  as  a 
fly  if  we  came  into  conflict  with  the  motives 
of  the  tetrahedral  race!  Here  were  beings 
endowed  by  nature  with  powers  beyond  our 
science — alien  to  our  ideas  of  evolution,  well- 
nigh  to  our  imagination  and  reason.” 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence  as  his 
deadened  eyes  saw  once  more  the  vision  of 
that  awful  day.  I thought  he  had  done,  but 
again  his  voice  broke  the  quiet. 

“Perhaps  we  can  flee,  even  now — hide 
away  in  some  corner  where  they  can  have  no 
motive  for  searching.  Perhaps,  for  a little, 
we  can  save  our  lives  and  yet — I wonder  if  it 
is  not  better  to  die  foolishly,  futilely,  but  to 
die  with  the  knowledge  that  we  have  been 
closer  than  any  man  to  the  unfathomable,  to 
tire  reality  that  underlies  all  life.” 

From  the  dark  beyond  the  glowing  em- 
bers came  Marston’s  quiet  rumble. 

“We  can’t  do  less.  Prof,  and  we  won’t.  In 
the  morning  we  must  lay  our  plans.  They 
are  getting  restless — they  may  strike  any 
minute  and  we  must  be  ready  and  waiting. 
We’re  going  to  die,  I guess,  but  we’ll  die  as 
men  should!” 

The  events  of  the  past  few  hours  had 
crowded  in  upon  me  with  such  staggering 
force  and  complexity  that  I found  my  mind 
in  a whirl.  I could  get  no  clear-cut  im- 
pression— no  broad  meaning — only  a blurred, 
fanastic  cyclorama  of  unearthly  event  and 
taut  emotion. 

With  the  morning  all  this  changed — 
changed  swiftly  and  utterly  as  event  after 
event  rushed  upon  us,  broke  like  a tidal  wave 
upon  our  outraged  consciousness,  and  van- 
ished before  the  tumultuous  onslaught  of 
another,  greater  clash  of  mind  and  matter. 

We  were  up  with  the  dawn.  I wanted  to 
return  to  the  valley  to  get  my  bearings  but 
Valdez  claimed  it  was  uselessly  dangerous. 


TETRAHEDRA  OF  SPACE  89 


that  he  could  make  better  time  from  where 
we  were.  We  struck  into  the  tangle  of  dank 
underwood,  Valdez  leading,  and  within 
seconds  of  our  leaving  camp  I was  utterly 
lost.  My  companion  seemed  sure  of  his  way, 
slipping  through  the  maze  of  fine  growth  like 
a beast  of  the  jungle. 

For  nearly  an  hour  we  plunged  ahead,  then 
of  a sudden  came  a gap  in  the  forest  roof  as 
the  level  of  the  ground  fell  in  a narrow 
ravine,  and  I woke  to  angry  realization  of 
what  was  happening  ! The  sun,  on  our  right 
when  we  started,  lay  behind  us!  We  were 
traveling  dead  away  from  the  valley,  the 
camp  and  the  plane! 

Angrily  I sprang  forward,  seized  Valdez 
by  the  shoulder  I He  spun  like  a striking 
snake,  fury  in  his  half-closed  eyes,  fury  and 
crazed  fear  ! In  his  hand  was  a gun  ! 

“So — ^you  have  awakened  at  last,  Senor 
Hawkins,”  he  sneered.  “You  fool — did  you 
for  one  moment  think  I would  cast  my  lot 
with  those  idiots  back  there?  You  were  not 
invited  to  our  little  party,  but  you  came — 
and  you  will  do  as  I say  or  wish  you  had  I 
Am  I clear?” 

“You’re  too  damn’  clear !”  I shouted.  “So 
you’re  going  to  sneak  off  and  leave  your 
comrades  to  the  tender  mercies  of  those  tet- 
rahedra — you  want  to  make  sure  of  your 
precious  hide ! What  do  you  think  these 
savages  will  do  to  you  when  they  catch  you 
out  here  alone,  running  away  from  their  new 
gods?  You’re  a damned,  yellow,  mad  dog!” 

“You  say  unfortunate  things,  Senor  Haw- 
kins,” he  replied  coldly,  the  ugly  sneer  still 
on  his  thin,  red  lips.  "I  think  that  I can  dis- 
pense with  your  company.  It  might  interest 
you  to  know  that  Valdez  is  the  name  of  my 
father  by  adoption,  Senor.  My  people  are 
those  whom  you  have  so  kindly  classified  as 
savages — my  home  is  these  very  forests  that 
you  seem  to  find  so  unpleasant ! And,  Senor 
Hawkins,  have  I not  said  that  I can  always 
find  your  plane?” 

“What  do  you  mean  by  that?” 

'T  mean,  Senor,  that  it  has  always  been  I 
who  could  find  the  plane,  and  I who  did  find 
it,  not  very  many  minutes  after  it  crashed. 
You  would  be  disappointed,  Senor  Hawkins, 
were  you  to  see  it  now.  The  food,  the  guns 
and  ammunition  of  which  you  boasted — 
they  can  never  have  existed  save  in  a mind 
disordered  by  jungle  fevers.” 

I stared  up  through  the  matted  branches 
at  the  blandly  shining  sun.  I raised  both 
hands,  fists  clenched,  as  if  to  crash  them 


down  upon  that  evilly  smiling  face ! But  the 
little  snub-nosed  gun  that  bored  into  my 
belly  spoke  eloquent  warning  and  of  a sudden 
came  clear  thought. 

“So  even  in  this  you  must  lie,  Valdez ! It  is 
bred  in  the  blood,  I think  ! I do  not  question 
that  you  stole  the  food  and  weapons  that 
meant  life  to  your  comrades — it  is  much  too 
characteristic  an  act  to  doubt — but,  Senor 
Valdez,  no  Indian  would  so  steal  another’s 
food.  Was  it,  perhaps,  your  mother  who 
was  white  f’’ 

I saw  murder  staring  at  me  and  in  the  in- 
stant when  he  stood  frozen  with  his  hate  I 
leaped — swung  with  all  my  weight  on  the 
great  liana  that  was  looped  over  the  branch 
above  me ! Even  as  the  gun  spat  flame,  the 
tautening  vine  caught  him  full  at  the  base 
of  the  skull  and  toppled  him  forward  into 
the  black  mold  of  the  forest  floor,  out,  and 
out  for  good ! 


CHAPTER  III 
The  Tetrahedra’s  Power 


IT  WAS  his  life  or  mine,  but  I had  not 
contemplated  killing  him.  The  vine  was 
heavy  and  swung  loose  on  the  limb,  and  it 
whipped  taut  with  the  force  of  a snapping 
hawser,  catching  him  squarely  at  the  base  of 
his  maddened  brain! 

I turned  him  over,  and  as  I lifted  him  his 
head  flopped  forward  like  that  of  a rag  dum- 
my ! With  a shudder  I dropped  him  after 
searching  his  body  for  weapons  and  food.  In 
his  breast  pocket  was  a rough  sketch-map, 
showing  the  valley,  the  camp,  and  a small 
cross  where  the  plane  had  fallen. 

Across  its  penciled  contours  ran  a fine 
dotted  line,  due  north  from  the  camp  nearly 
to  the  place  where  the  plane  lay,  then  bearing 
off  to  the  west,  toward  the  mountains.  Just 
beyond  was  a second  little  cross,  to  the  south 
of  the  trail.  I knew  what  it  meant — the  food 
and  guns  from  the  looted  plane ! Within  five 
minutes  I had  uncovered  Valdez’  cache, 
under  the  cover  of  an  out  cropping  ledge  of 
quartz,  and  loaded  one  of  the  packs  we  had 
brought  along. 

How  to  return  to  camp  with  my  news  was 
another  question  entirely.  I knew  it  was 
futile  for  me  to  try  to  follow  the  back  trail. 


STARTUNG  STORIES 


90 

There  remained  the  valley — straight  south 
along  the  ravine — and  I felt  certain  that  once 
there  I could  regain  my  lost  sense  of  direc- 
tion or  wait  until  one  of  the  others  found  me. 
The  valley — and  the  tetrahedral  Driven  by 
instinct  or  intuition,  I shouldered  one  of  the 
very  light  machine-guns  and  wrapped  three 
belts  of  ammunition  about  my  waist,  under 
my  shirt. 

The  going  was  easier  along  the  rim  erf  the 
little  ravine  than  at  its  bottom,  where  extra 
moisture  made  the  tangle  thicker.  The  trail 
finally  swung  away  from  the  stream-bed  to- 
ward the  east  and  suddenly  emerged  on  a 
sort  of  peninsula  jutting  into  the  valley  just 
above  the  point  where  the  twin  spheres  lay. 
Here  were  gathered  the  forest  Indians, 
clustered  behind  the  thin  screen  of  vege- 
tation, gazing  in  dumb  adoration  at  the 
things  below.  So  rapt  were  they  that  my  ap- 
proach went  unnoticed,  and  I was  able  to 
retreat  and  bear  to  the  west,  creeping  up  to 
the  edge  of  the  valley  midway  between  clear- 
ing and  ravine. 

Now,  in  the  full  light  of  day,  I could  see 
that  it  was  as  Professor  Hornby  had  said. 
The  tetrahedra  were  formed  from  some  hard, 
crystalline  mineral,  black  almost  to  invisi- 
bility, with  a faint  wash  of  rich  purple  run- 
ning through  it.  As  they  moved,  the  sun  sent 
up  glittering  flashes  of  brilliance  from  their 
polished  flanks.  For  the  tetrahedra  were 
restless,  were  weaving  aimlessly  in  and  out 
among  the  boulders  in  weird  arabesques. 

Apart  from  the  rest,  motionless  in  a sort 
of  circular  clearing  among  the  rocks,  squatted 
the  giant  leader  of  the  tetrahedra.  In  him  the 
deep  violet  of  the  crystal  became  a rich, 
plum-like  hue,  purple  flushed  with  warm  red, 
and  the  underlying  black  seemed  less  harsh. 

And  now  the  giant  leader  was  dinning  out 
his  mighty  call  in  long,  slow  billows  of  beat- 
ing sound  that  seemed  to  thrust  me  back, 
press  me  into  the  dark  of  the  forest,  away 
from  the  alien  monsters  of  the  valley ! In  re- 
sponse came  thirty  of  the  lesser  tetrahedra, 
chosen  seemingly  at  random  from  the  scat- 
tered ranks,  to  range  themselves  at  equal  in- 
tervals about  their  master,  forming  a single 
great  circle  a dozen  yards  in  diameter. 

GAIN  the  throbbing  call  shattered 
against  the  cliffs  about  me,  and  now  all 
the  hordes  of  the  tetrahedra  broke  into  flow- 
ing motion,  converging  in  a torrent  of  glitter- 
ing purple  crystal  upon  the  natural  amphi- 
theater, clustering  in  threes  at  the  spots  that 


their  fellows  had  marked — all  but  ten,  who 
glided  into  place  before  every  third  group, 
forming  a giant  toothed  wheel  with  hub  and 
rim  and  spokes  of  living,  sentient  crystal — 
crystal  with  a purpose! 

I could  see  that  the  groups  of  three  that 
formed  the  toothed  rim  of  the  giant  crystal 
wheel  were  tipping  inward,  bringing  their 
peaks  together  in  a narrow  focus,  and  more, 
that  the  ten  that  were  the  spokes,  the  binding 
members  of  the  wheel,  were  of  the  same  rich 
hue  as  their  master. 

As  the  sun  soared  higher,  pouring  its 
blazing  rays  straight  down  upon  the  swelter- 
ing world,  I sensed  the  beginning  of  a vague 
roseate  glow  at  the  foci  of  the  circling  trios, 
a glow  as  of  energy,  light,  focused  by  the  tet- 
rahedra themselves,  yet  not  of  themselves, 
but  sucked  from  the  flood  of  light  that  poured 
upon  them  from  above. 

The  rose-glow  deepened  to  angry  vermil- 
ion, seemingly  caged  within  the  spheres  de- 
fined by  the  tips  of  the  tilted  tetrahedra.  Now 
the  scarlet  flame  of  the  prisoned  light  was 
mounting  swiftly  in  an  awful  pinnacle  of  out- 
rageous color — pure  fire  torn  from  the  warm 
rays  of  the  sun — raw  energy  for  the  glutting 
of  these  tetrahedral  demons  of  another 
world ! 

Slowly  the  great  ring  contracted,  slowly 
the  tetrahedra  tipped  toward  their  common 
center,  bearing  at  their  foci  the  globes  of 
angry  flame.  Then  they  loosed  the  cradled 
energy  of  the  spheres  in  one  mighty  blaze  of 
blinding  crimson  that  swept  out  in  a single 
huge  sheet  of  flame,  blanketing  all  the  giant 
wheel  with  its  glory,  then  rushing  into  the 
blazing  vortex  of  its  center.  Here,  all  the 
freed  energy  of  the  flame  was  flowing  into 
the  body  of  the  mighty  ruler  of  the  tetra- 
hedra. 

And  now,  as  in  recoil,  there  spouted  from 
his  towering  peak  a fine,  thin  fountain  of  pale 
blue  fire,  soundless,  like  the  blaze  of  man- 
made lightning  between  two  mightily  ener- 
gized electrodes— the  blue  of  electric  fire — 
the  seepage  of  the  giant’s  feast!  Like  slaves 
snatching  at  the  crumbs  from  their  master’s 
board,  the  ten  lesser  tetrahedra  crowded 
close. 

As  their  fierce  hunger  voiced  itself  in 
awful,  yearning  force,  the  fountain  of  blue 
flame  split  into  ten  thin  tongues,  barely  visi- 
ble against  the  black  rock,  that  bent  down 
into  the  pinnacles  of  the  ten  and  poured 
through  them  into  the  crowding  rim  of  the 
giant  wheel. 


TETRAHEDRA  OF  SPACE  91 


As  I watched,  each  tetrahedron  began  to 
swell,  visibly,  creeping  in  horrid  slow  growth 
to  a magnitude  very  little  less  than  that  of 
their  giant  leader.  And  as  they  mounted  in 
size,  the  torrent  of  blue  fire  paled  and  died, 
leaving  them  glutted  and  expectant  of  the 
final  stage ! 

It  came  with  startling  suddenness ! In  an 
instant  each  of  the  hundred  clustering  mon- 
sters budded,  burst,  shattered  into  four  of 
half  its  size  that  cleaved  from  each  corner  of 
the  parent  tetrahedron.  Only  the  giant  ruler 
lay  unchanged  beneath  the  downward  slant- 
ing rays  of  the  sun.  The  hundred  had  be- 
come four  hundred ! The  tetrahedra  had 
spawned ! 

Drinking  in  the  light  of  the  noonday  sun, 
sucking  up  its  energy  to  give  them  substance, 
these  tetrahedral  beings  from  an  alien  world 
held  it  in  their  power  to  smother  out  the 
slightest  opposition  by  sheer  force  of  ever- 
mounting  numbers ! Man  was  doomed ! 

On  the  jutting  point  to  my  left  I sensed 
new  activity.  The  Indians  were  chanting  in 
weird  low  tones,  to  the  rhythm  of  a deep- 
throated  drum.  It  was  some  monotonous 
hymn  or  supplication  to  their  ancient  gods — 
gods  now  personified  in  the  things  below. 
Through  the  screen  of  shrubbery  between 
us,  I glimpsed  their  cdiieftain,  taller  by  a head 
than  the  rest,  his  arms  upraised,  leading  the 
exhortation.  Their  voices  rose,  broke  in  an 
angry  clamor  as  a dozen  of  their  kind  burst 
from  the  forest  dragging  the  bound  form  of  a 
white  man — of  Marston! 

Separated  from  them  by  a hundred  feet  of 
space  and  a double  screen  of  matted  vines, 
I dared  not  fire  for  fear  of  slaying  friend  with 
foe ! Headlong  I dived  into  the  tangle,  shov- 
ing the  machine-gun  ahead  of  me ! Had  they 
not  been  utterly  engrossed  in  their  savage 
ritual,  the  Indians  must  surely  have  heard 
my  blundering  approach.  By  chance  or 
fortune  the  tangle  was  less  matted  than  else- 
where and  I burst  into  the  cleared  space 
barely  in  the  nick  of  time. 

ARSTON’S  huge;  straining  frame 
Xv  Ja  was  bent  back  over  a rounded  slab  of 
polished  rock  in  the  center  of  the  clearing, 
the  dwarfed  forest-men  fairly  swarming  over 
him  to  hold  him  in  place!  Arms  raised  in 
supplication,  their  chieftain  stood  over  him, 
his  features  distorted  by  fear  of  his  gods  and 
frenzy  of  sacrifice!  In  his  clenched  fist  he 
grasped  a glittering  knife  of  steel,  a knife  that 
half  an  hour  ago  I had  seen  buried  in  the 


black  soil  of  the  forest  floor — Valdes’  knife! 

With  a cackle  of  savage  laughter  my  gun 
woke  the  echoes,  sweeping  leaden  death 
across  the  clearing,  mowing  its  swath  of  lives 
in  sacrifice  more  terrible  than  any  savage 
mind  could  plan ! I raked  their  bewildered 
ranks  with  the  laughing  death,  then  the  belt 
of  cartridges  was  gone  and,  as  I fumbled  for 
a second,  the  few  cowering  survivors  fled 
screaming  into  the  sheltering  jungle ! 

Stumbling  over  the  torn  and  bleeding  win- 
drows of  slain  humanity,  I raced  across  the 
bloody  clearing  to  where  he  lay.  And,  as  I 
reached  the  rude  altar,  Marston  heaved  his 
blood-soaked  frame  free  of  the  bodies  that 
covered  it,  sat  up  and  growled. 

“Are  you  quite  sure  you’ve  killed  enough 
for  the  day?  Or  didn’t  you  know  it  was 
loaded?’’ 

“Marston,  man!’’  I shouted  frantically, 
“Are  you  all  right?  Did  I hit  you?” 

“Oh,  not  at  all.  I’m  quite  all  right.  You’re 
a rotten  shot  if  I do  say  it — bring  in  a 
blasted  flail  and  then  you  can’t  hit  me ! 
Though  I’ll  not  say  you  didn’t  try  hard 
enough.” 

As  a matter  of  fact  I had  nicked  a chunk 
out  of  his  arm — a nice,  clean  hit — and  the 
blood  on  him  was  not  all  Indian.  Still,  his 
sarcastic  joshing  served  its  purpose  and 
brought  me  out  of  my  near-hysteria.  Not 
until  we  were  well  clear  of  the  shambles 
around  the  altar  did  he  speak  of  Valdez. 

“What  happened?”  he  asked.  “Did  Val- 
dez bolt?” 

“He  tried  to,”  I replied  glumly.  “He  had 
the  stuff  from  the  plane  cached  on  the  trail 
out,  and — well,  we  had  it  out.  I broke  his 
neck — killed  him.” 

“I’m  not  blaming  you  for  it.  I saw  it  com- 
ing, and  I reckon  it  was  you  or  he.  But  it’s 
stirred  up  merry  hell  among  the  Indians. 
Did  you  know  he  was  a breed?  He  claimed 
to  be  pure  Indian,  son  of  a jungle  chieftain 
and  a princess  of  some  remnants  of  the  Old 
People,  but  he  was  a breed  and  crossed  the 
wrong  way ! 

“I  told  you  I was  suspicious  of  Valdez.  I 
tried  to  follow  you  and  they  jumped  me. 
south  of  here,  near  the  ravine.  It  must  have 
been  shortly  after  they  found  Valdez,  for 
they  were  all  crazy  mad.  I think  the  Doc  is 
safe,  though.  Do  you  realize  that  this  spawn- 
ing means  that  they’re  ready  to  go  ahead  and 
burn  their  way  right  through  everything — 
make  this  whole  planet  a safer  and  better 
place  for  tetrahedra? 


92  STAETUNG  STORIES 


“Doc  has  figured  they’re  from  Mercury — 
overcrowded,  probably,  by  this  wholesale 
system  of  reprc^uction  in  job-lots,  and  hunt- 
ing for  new  stamping  grounds.  I don’t  know 
what  our  chances  are  of  bucking  them — 
about  a quarter  of  what  they  were  an  hour 
ago — but  they’re  mighty  slim,  armed  as  we 
are.  You’ve  got  the  other  machine-gun?’’ 
“It’s  at  the  cache,  with  most  of  the  food,  if 
the  Indians  didn’t  find  it  when  they  found 
Valdez.  I have  a map  here  that  he  was 
using.  ’’ 

“Good.  Let’s  have  it.  You  keep  an  eye  on 
the  Professor  tomorrow,  now  that  the  In- 
dians are  out  for  blood  and  I’ll  get  the  stuff 
back  to  camp.  Come  on — ^let’s  hunt  him  up 
now,  while  they’re  still  scared.” 

“Wait,  Marston,”  I replied.  “You  get  the 
stuff  now.  I have  a hunch  we’ll  need  it,  and 
that  soon.  I can  find  Professor  Hornby  well 
enough,  and  I don’t  think  the  Indians  will 
want  any  more  for  some  time  to  come.” 
“Right  you  are !”  he  exclaimed.  “So  long 
then.  ” 


CHAPTER  IV 
At  Bay! 


1HAD  no  trouble  in  finding  the  Professor. 

In  truth,  he  found  me.  He  was  all  but 
boiling  over  with  excitement,  for  he  had  seen 
something  we  had  not. 

“Hawkins,”  he  exclaimed,  “did  you  see 
them  spawn?  It  is  remarkable — ^absolutely 
unequalled ! I saw  two  that  divided  and  re- 
divided into  three-inch  tetrahedra — over  a 
thousand  of  them ! Hawkins,  they  can  over- 
run our  little  planet  in  a few  days,  once  they 
start!  We’re  done  for!” 

“I  guess  you’re  right,  Professor,”  I re- 
plied. “But  tell  me — ^have  you  seen  anything 
of  the  Indians?” 

“The  Indians?  Yes — they  seem  to  have 
lost  their  reverence  for  the  tetrahedra.  These 
tribes  do  not  paint  much  but  those  I have 
seen  were  decorated  for  battle.  They  may 
resist  now  if  the  tetrahedra  try  to  start  some- 
thing.” 

“Marston  will  be  glad  to  hear  that ! Right 
now,  I think  we  had  better  strike  for  the 
high  ground  across  the  ravine,  where  their 
flame  is  less  likely  to  reach  us.  I’ll  leave  you 
there  and  then  look  for  Marston  and  the 


guns.  We’re  going  to  need  them  before 
long.” 

We  found  an  ideal  fortress,  high  on  the 
west  side  of  the  ravine,  where  a little  spur 
ran  down  from  the  highlands  to  the  valley  of 
the  tetrahedra.  Indeed,  it  had  been  used  as 
a lookout  by  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  the 
region  ages  ago.  Enough  of  the  ancient  walls 
remained  to  provide  a decent  bulwark  against 
attack  and  I left  Professor  Hornby  with  the 
gun  to  hold  the  fort  until  I could  find  Mars- 
ton. 

I had  little  difficulty  in  locating  him  and 
between  us  we  transferred  the  supplies  from 
cache  to  lookout  while  the  Professor  kept  a 
perfunctory  guard  over  them.  He  was  more 
interested  in  digging  around  in  the  ancient 
floor  for  potsherds  and  tools  of  the  former 
inhabitants. 

It  was  two  days  before  the  hostilities 
began.  Meanwhile  we  had  found  the  wreck 
of  the  plane,  nearly  intact  but  quite  useless 
in  this  dense  jungle.  We  drained  the  tanks  of 
what  gasoline  they  contained,  storing  in  it 
great  glazed  jars  of  painted  earthenware  that 
Professor  Hornby  had  found  intact  in  a niche 
below  our  present  floor-level.  His  idea  was 
to  fight  fire  with  fire. 

Marston  and  I cleared  out  the  brush  as 
best  we  could,  and  cut  deep  slots  in  the  larger 
trees  on  the  downhill  side,  piling  the  quickly 
drying  underbrush  at  the  far  side  of  our 
little  swath,  saturating  it  with  gasoline, 
then  digging  in  to  one  of  the  Professor’s  ex- 
cavations while  the  fireworks  went  off.  We 
more  or  less  leveled  the  thick  forest  for  about 
two  hundred  feet  on  all  sides  before  the 
fire  petered  out. 

The  next  morning,  there  was  renewed 
activity.  The  tetrahedra  cleared  out  a siz- 
able ring  of  forest  before  sun-set.  The  next 
noon  they  had  another  sunfeast  and  the 
blackened  valley  was  fairly  teeming  with 
their  angular  forms,  large  and  small. 

In  vast  waves  of  horrid  destruction,  with  ' 
rays  of  angry  yellow  flame  darting  from 
apexes,  their  flaming  floods  of  energy  swept 
over  the  jungle  and  not  even  its  damp  dark 
could  resist.  Mighty  forest-giants  toppled 
headlong,  by  the  cleaving  yellow  flame,  to 
melt  into  powdery  ash  before  they  touched 
the  ground. 

By  evening,  our  spur  of  rock  was  a lone 
peninsula,  an  oasis  in  a desert  of  harsh 
black. 

Aside  from  the  vegetation  which  they 
were  so  methodically  blasting,  the  Mercutian 


TETRAHEDBA  OF  SPACE  93 


tetrahedra — for  such  Professor  Hornby 
swore  they  were  and  such  we  later  found 
them  to  be — had  not  yet  come  into  real  con- 
tact with  the  life  of  our  planet,  much  less  its 
master,  Man.  Now  all  that  was  changed.  It 
began  with  the  Indians.  It  ended  with  us. 

MOW  that  we  were  shut  off  from  the 
jungle,  we  no  longer  sensed  the  unease 
and  stealthy  activity  of  the  forest  people. 
Their  gods  had  betrayed  them — their  sacri- 
fice had  been  interrupted  and  their  chief  men 
slaughtered  unmercifully  by  the  slayers  of 
their  half-white  brother.  Their  whole  life 
and  legend  had  gone  wrong.  The  tetrahedra 
were  to  blame  and  the  tetrahedra  must  pay ! 

The  invaders  did  not  start  their  daily  pro- 
gram of  devastation  until  the  sun  was  high. 
Of  late,  the  people'  of  the  forest  had  become 
creatures  of  the  night,  and  so  it  was  that 
Marston  roused  us  about  midnight  to  watch 
the  fun,  as  he  put  it. 

The  spheres  were  too  small  to  hold  all  the 
tetrahedral  hosts,  now,  and  they  lay  crowded 
in  great  confocal  ovals  about  them,  sleeping, 
if  such  things  can  be  said  to  sleep.  The  first 
indication  of  the  attack  was  a tiny  fire  of 
leaves  and  twigs  on  the  rocks  above  the 
ravine. 

Then  came  a low,  wailing  chant,  rising 
swiftly  in  vehemence  and  bitter  hatred — a 
curse  designed  to  blast  the  unearthly  in- 
vaders where  they  lay.  It  suddenly  broke 
in  a shrill,  senile  yammer  of  sheer  madness ! 
The  strain  was  more  than  some  old  priest 
could  stand. 

As  in  answer,  other  greatef  fires  sprang 
up  all  along  the  walls  of  the  valley,  and  by 
their  light  we  could  see  the  Indians  closing 
in  from  the  edge  of  the  forest — thousands  of 
them,  drawn  to  worship  over  untold  leagues 
of  jungle  paths,  racing  into  battle  with  all 
the  mad  fanaticism  of  an  outraged  religion! 

It  was  like  a tidal  wave  of  screeching 
humanity,  pouring  down  over  the  black  rock 
to  break  over  the  sleeping  tetrahedra!  Like 
a great  city  of  black,  tetrahedral  tents  the 
Mercutians  lay,  dim-lit  by^  the  falling  moon. 

It  was  I who  first  noticed  the  faint,  rosy 
glow  that  hung  over  the  silent  ranks — a glow 
like  that  which  had  brought  dowm  my  plane. 
I whispered  to  Marston,  and  he  told  me  that 
it  had  not  been  there  before — that  the 
tetrahedra  must  be  awake. 

He  was  right.  The  red  glow  was  spreading 
swiftly,  out  over  the  valley  floor,  and  there 
must  have  been  another,  invisible  emana- 


tion that  preceded  it,  for  all  round  the  valley, 
the  first  ranks  of  the  savages  were  meeting 
this  slowly  advancing  wall  of  unseen  death — 
meeting  it,  and  falling  before  it ! 

In  long  windrow's  they  lay,  body  after  body 
piling  up  before  the  momentum  of  the  un- 
leashed rush  of  the  red-skinned  hordes ! 
Stones,  arrows,  spears  flew  through  the 
thickening  red  mist  to  clatter  harmlessly  as 
it  seemed,  for  only  here  and  there  among 
them  showed  a little  spurt  of  pale  blue  flame 
as  one  of  the  smaller  things  was  crushed  by 
a hurtling  stone ! They  were  hard,  but  their 
skins  of  crystal  were  thin  and  they  were  not 
invulnerable  I 

The  Indians  sensed  this,  too,  for  they 
deserted  spears  and  darts  in  favor  of  a hail 
of  stones,  large  and  small,  that  clattered 
among  the  tetrahedra  in  a veritable  down- 
pour, dealing  really  telling  destruction  among 
those  who  had  not  attained  a fair  size. 

The  savages  were  yelling  in  triumph,  now, 
thrilled  with  success  and  their  blind  on- 
slaught was  checked,  but  still  the  invisible 
barrier  crept  on,  dealing  death  all  along  their 
evilly  grimacing  front,  and  still  the  rose-red 
haze  followed  after.  The  yelling  circle  was 
thinning  fast,  yet  they  had  not  realized  the 
futility  of  their  attack  when  suddenly  the 
tetrahedra  deserted  quiet  defense  for  active 
combat ! 

Five  Indians  on  the  upslope  had  shoved' 
over  the  cliff  a huge  rounded  boulder  that 
bounded  like  a live  thing  among  the  rocks 
and  crashed  full  into  the  side  of  a great  eight- 
foot  tetrahedron,  splintering  its  flinty  flank 
and  freeing  the  pent-up  energy  in  a blinding 
torrent  of  blue  flame.  The  mad  attack  had  be- 
come a thing  of  real  menace  to  the  tetrahe- 
dra, and  they  sprang  into  swift  retribution. 
From  their  apexes  flashed  the  flaming  yellow 
streaks  of  destruction. 

Now  at  last  the  Indians  broke  and  fled  be- 
fore the  advancing  hordes,  but  flight  came 
too  late,  for  the  tetrahedra  were  aroused  and 
they  gave  no  quarter ! The  doomed  Indians 
seem^  to  float  in  a yellow  sea  and  what  the 
sea  touched  was  gone  in  an  instant ! Before 
that  awful  barrage  nothing  living  could 
stand ! 

Of  a sudden  the  tragedy  was  borne  forci- 
bly to  our  own  quarter,  as  a handful  of  In- 
dians sought  the  refuge  of  our  rocky  spur! 
They  were  men  like  ourselves,  men  in  awful 
danger  of  their  lives,  and  Marston  and 
Hornb)'  sprang  to  the  parapet,  shouting  at 
them  in  their  native  tongue. 


94 


STARTLING  STORIES 


But  the  frightened  savage  knows  no  friend, 
and  their  re^y  was  a volley  of  long  arrows 
that  toppled  the  Professor  into  my  arms  and 
sent  Marston  cursing  for  the  guns ! Lips  set 
grimly,  he  sprayed  the  rocky  slope  with 
leaden  death,  mowing  down  the  savages  as 
I had  done  in  the  place  of  sacrifice ! 

Like  locusts  they  came  on  frc«n  every  side, 
eyes  red  with  blood-lust,  teeth  bared  in  hate. 
It  was  the  debris  of  our  back-fire,  piled  in  a 
matted  belt  around  the  spur,  that  saved  us, 
for  here  the  mad  charge  must  halt  and  here 
our  guns  took  their  toll. 

Even  so,  I think  our  defense  must  have 
failed  but  for  the  tetrahedra.  They  had 
not  been  slow  to  recognize  the  changed  na- 
ture of  the  Indians’  flight  and  they  turned 
that  realization  to  their  own  advantage,  curv- 
ing around  the  spur  to  cut  off  a second  re- 
treat, then  laying  down  their  fiery  yellow  bar- 
rage upon  the  rear  of  the  clamoring  savage 
host,  licking  them  up  as  a bear  lid<s  ants. 

For  a moment  matters  were  at  a deadlock. 
We  paused  and  took  stock — three  men  with 
their  guns  against  thousands  of  tetrahedra, 
armed  with  lightning.  Hornby  had  slumped 
back  against  the  low  wall,  his  eyes  closed, 
his  spare  frame  racked  with  coughs  that 
brought  back  blood  to  his  twisted  lips.  An 
arrow  had  pierced  his  lungs.  Marston 
dropped  the  machine-gun,  now  smoking-hot, 
and  grabbed  up  a rifle.  I followed  suit.  So 
for  perhaps  two  minutes  the  rival  forces  held 
silent,  waiting. 

The  Mercutians  took  the  initiative.  Their 
yellow  tongues  of  flame  crept  slowly  up  the 
hillside,  scouring  it  clean — up,  up  toward  our 
little  refuge  on  the  peak.  They  began  to  glide 
forward,  on  every  side,  beginning  the  ascent 
In  answer  our  rifles  rang  out,  and  now  there 
was  no  doubt  as  to  their  vulnerability,  for 
wherever  the  steel- jacketed  lead  hit,  the 
thin  crystal  splintered  and  the  night  was  lit 
by  the  glare  of  freed  energy. 

By  the  dim  light  of  the  red  mist  I could 
see  the  giant  leader  of  the  Mercutians,  stand- 
ing at  the  summit  of  the  cliff  above  the  val- 
ley, commanding  tire  attack.  I raised  my 
rifle,  fired — not  at  the  advancing  front  but 
farther  back,  into  the  body  of  the  horde, 
slowly  driving  my  fire  back  toward  the  giant 
commander,  hemming  him  in  with  death, 
threatening — but  not  striking!  I cannot  tell 
why  we  did  not  destroy  him,  for  Marston  had 
followed  suit.  Somehow  we  felt  that  it  was 
wiser  to  spare  him  and  our  intuition  was 


good.  For  a moment  he  hesitated,  then 
thundered  his  drumming  command  and  the 
ranks  of  the  tetrahedra  drew  slowly  back. 

We  remained  virtual  prisoners  for  eight 
days.  On  the  third,  Professor  Hornby  died — 
a blessing,  for  he  suffered  greatly.  He  was 
the  only  one  who  really  understood  the  tet- 
rahedra and  we  shall  never  know  how  he 
deduced  that  they  were  from  Mercury,  a 
fact  which  Marston  later  proved.  The 
archaeological  data  collected  by  the  expedi- 
tion are  lost  too,  since  both  he  and  Valdez  are 
dead  and  we  could  bring  out  no  specimens. 
The  tetrahedra  left  us  alone.  Meanwhile 
they  continued  their  barrage  of  the  jungle. 

Through  the  binoculars  we  watched  them 
slowly  advance  and  noted  their  surprise  as 
they  burned  the  covering  jungle  from  the 
great  ruined  city  which  the  expedition  had 
sought.  It  r.-as  their  first  real  experience 
with  the  works  of  Man,  and  it  caused  a great 
commotion  among  them. 

Later  in  the  same  day  they  found  the 
wreck  of  the  plane,  and  this  time  conster- 
nation indeed  reigned.  Here  was  a machine 
of  some  sort,  evidently  the  product  of  the 
civilization  that  they  feared.  Moreover,  it 
was  recent  where  the  city  was  ancient. 

The  little  valley  was  still  the  center  of 
their  activity,  and  every  day  we  watched 
their  spawning  as  the  sun  rode  high.  There 
was  always  a double  ring  of  the  tetrahedra 
about  us  now,  and  their  crimson  sea  of 
energy  beat  high  about  our  prison.  The  giant 
who  led  them  came  often  to  observe  us,  to 
sit  and  stare  with  invisible  eyes  at  our  for- 
tress and  ourselves.  Their  drumming  speech 
had  grown  familiar,  and  I felt  it  would  ncrt 
be  hard  to  imderstand,  given  the  key. 

Marston  seemed  fascinated  with  the  thirds 
and  their  ways.  There  was  a spring  just 
above  the  limit  of  the  red  haze,  where  we 
got  our  water,  and  he  would  sit  there  by 
the  hour,  watching  and  listening. 

Ever  since  Marston  had  first  mentioned 
Professor  Hornby’s  theory  that  the  things 
were  Mercutians,  I had  been  trying  to  find 
some  way  of  verifying  it.  Now  that  we  were 
on  semi-intimate  terms  with  the  tetrahedra, 
I wondered  if  I might  not  get  them,  some- 
how, to  supply  this  evidence. 

There  was  soft  rock  in  the  structure  (ff 
the  watch-tower  and,  as  Valdez  had  rescued 
my  tool  kit  from  the  plane,  I had  a hammer 
and  chisel.  With  these,  and  a faulty  memory, 
I set  out  to  make  a rough  scale  diagram  of 
the  inner  planets,  leaning  a bit  on  the  Profes- 


95 


TETRAHEDRA  OF  SPACE 


sor’s  theory.  I cut  circular  grooves  for  the 
orbits  of  the  four  minor  planets — Mercury, 
Venus,.  Earth,  Mars — and  dug  a central  pit. 

In  this  I set  a large  nugget  of  gold,  found 
in  the  ruins  of  the  fortress,  for  the  Sun, 
and  in  the  grooves  a tiny  black  pebble  for 
Mercury,  a large  white  one  for  Venus,  and  a 
jade  bead  from  the  ruins  for  Earth.  Earth 
had  a very  small  white  moon,  in  its  own 
spiral  orbit.  Mars  was  a chunk  of  iron  with 
two  grains  of  sand  for  moons. 


CHAPTER  V 
Face  to  Face 


O THINGS  stood  when  the  tropical 
storm  broke  over  us.  A cloud-burst, 
it  would  be  called  in  the  United  States.  The 
heavens  opened  in  the  night,  and  water  fell 
in  torrents,  streaming  from  every  angle  of 
the  rock,  standing  in  pools  wherever  a hollow 
offered  itself,  drenching  us  and  the  world 
through  and  through.  Day  came,  but  there 
was  no  sun  for  the  tetrahedra  to  feed  on. 
Nor  were  they  thinking  of  feeding,  for  very 
definite  peril  threatened  them.  To  the  tetra- 
hedra, water  was  death! 

Their  fires  had  flaked  huge  slabs  of  rock 
from  the  walls  of  the  ravine.  And  now  that 
the  mountain  slopes,  shorn  of  soil  and  vegeta- 
tion, were  pouring  water  into  its  bed,  the 
stream  found  its  course  dammed — rose 
against  it,  poured  over  it,  but  not  until  the 
valley  had  become  a lake,  a lake  where  only 
the  two  pearly  spheres  floated  against  the 
rocky  wall,  the  thousands  of  tetrahedra  gone 
forever — dissolved ! 

Water  was  death  to  them — dissolution. 
Only  in  the  shelter  of  the  spheres  was  there 
safety  and  they  were  long  since  crowded. 
Hordes  of  the  tetrahedral  monsters  perished 
miserably  in  the  night.  A hundred  had  come 
in  the  twin  spheres.  A hundred  thousand 
had  been  born.  A bare  hundred  remained. 
Our  way  of  escape  was  clear ! 

Our  “local  shower”  lasted  for  three  days. 
Then  came  the  sun,  and  the  mountains  be- 
gan to  drain.  Only  tire  new-born  lake  re- 
mained to  remind  us  of  the  rains,  a lake 
stained  deep  violet  with  the  dissolving  bodies 
of  the  crystal  tetrahedra.  Those  in  the  two 
spheres  waited  for  a day,  then  came  forth  to 
survey  the  ruins  of  their  campaign — the  giant 


leader  and  a scant  hundred  subordinates. 

The  tetrahedra  resumed  their  guard 
about  the  base  of  our  crag,  although  the 
crimson  barrage  did  not  beat  so  high  nor  so 
vividly.  Their  master  squatted  outside  the 
ring,  brooding,  watching  us — perhaps  pon- 
dering our  connection  with  the  tempest  that 
had  wrecked  his  hopes.  And  now  Marston 
took  under  his  arm  the  great  Indian  drum 
that  I had  brought  away  from  the  place  of 
sacrifice  and  stalked  down  the  slope  to  con- 
front the  tetrahedra. 

I can  see  them  yet,  giant  leaders  of  two 
utterly  different  races,  born  on  two  planets 
sixty  millions  of  miles  apart  at  their  nearest, 
inherently  opposite  and  inherently  enemies, 
squatting  there  on  the  black  rock,  watching 
each  other ! A rumble  of  speech  from  the 
great  leader  and  the  rose-hue  of  the  barrage 
deepened,  climbed  higher  about  the  crag. 
Marston  did  not  move. 

Then  he  took  up  the  great  drum.  He  had 
cared  for  it  as  for  a child  during  the  long 
rain,  sheltering  it  as  best  he  could,  testing 
its  tautness.  Now  I learned  the  reason. 

Slowly,  softly,  using  the  heel  of  his  palm 
and  his  fingers  in  quick  succession,  he  began 
to  drum.  Faster,  ever  faster  the  great  drum 
of  sacrifice  boomed  forth  its  message,  until 
tlie  beats  melted  into  a low,  continuous 
thunder  of  bottomless  sound,  mounting  in 
volume  to  a steady,  rolling  roar,  rising  and 
swelling  in  delicate  inflection.  His  wrist  must 
have  been  wonderfully  strong  and  flexible  to 
so  control  the  sound!  Marston  was  speaking 
to  the  tetrahedra  with  the  voice  of  his  drum! 

URING  those  long,  empty  days  on  the 
crag-side  he  had  been  listening,  learn- 
ing, drilling  into  his  scientist’s  brain  the 
meaning  of  every  voiced  command  that  the 
great  master  of  the  Mercutian  tetrahedra 
thundered  to  his  crystal  hosts,  learning  their 
inflections,  storing  them  in  his  mind  I 

He  had  memorized  a simple  vocabulary — 
a host  of  nouns  and  verbs  that  even  yet  seem 
beyond  the  power  of  any  man  to  glean  from 
the  muttering  of  an  alien  race,  coupled  with 
the  actions  that  fitted  the  words.  But  Mar- 
ston had  learned,  and  with  the  sullen  voice 
of  the  giant  drum  he  was  replying,  in  words 
that  the  tetrahedron  understood ! 

For  the  crimson  mist  faded,  vanished.  The 
crystal  ranks  split,  and  through  the  lane 
between  them  glided  the  giant  ruler,  coming 
to  where  Marston  sat  with  his  drum.  He 
stopped,  spoke  in  words  very  like  those  that 


96  STARTUNG  STORIES 


Marston  had  used.  “What — ^you  ?” 

“We — tetrahedra — Earth.”  I translate 
rudely,  as  they  spoke. 

The  giant  was  startled.  How  could  we, 
misshapen,  flabby  monstrosities,  be  rulers  of 
a planet,  equal  to  themselves  ? 

“ Y ou — tetrahedra  ? ” 

The  drum  muttered  approval,  as  for  a ful- 
filled command.  The  idea  had  been  trans- 
ferred but  the  purple  giant  did  not  seem  to 
think  much  of  it. 

“You — weak!  (Easily  vulnerable,  like 
vegetation,  was  the  sense  of  the  term  used.) 
We — tetrahedra — our  planet — and  Earth!” 

Marston  called  to  me,  “Hawkins,  bring 
down  those  stones  you’ve  been  chipping  and 
a flask  of  water.  Wait — bring  two  flasks,  and 
a gun.” 

So  he  had  seen  me  at  work  and  guessed 
my  plan.  Well,  his  own  beat  it  hollow  but  if 
he  had  an  idea,  I wasn’t  going  to  hinder 
him.  I lugged  the  slabs  down  and  went  back 
for  the  stoppered  canteens  of  water  and  the 
gun.  At  his  directions  I set  one  flask  against 
the  rock  of  the  hillside.  He  took  the  other. 

“You  work  the  slabs,  Hawkins,”  he  said, 
“while  I talk.  I’ll  translate,  and  you  act 
accordingly.”  The  drum  spoke.  “Sun — 
Sun — Sun.”  He  pointed.  “Your  Sun — our 
Sun.” 

'The  tetrahedron  approved.  He  came  from 
our  own  Solar  System. 

Now  he  was  pointing  to  my  diagram,  to 
the  Sun,  the  Earth  and  its  orbit.  “Sun. 
Sun.  Earth.  Earth.”  I rolled  the  jade  bead 
slowly  along  its  groove,  the  white  moon- 
pebble  following  in  its  spiral  course.  I rolled 
the  other  planets,  showed  him  their  colors 
and  relative  sizes.  Marston  was  drumming 
again  as  I touched  planet  after  planet,  ques- 
tioning. “Your  planet — your  planet?  Your 
planet — what?  This?” 

The  giant  disapproved.  It  was  not  Mars. 

“This?”  It  was  anything  but  Venus! 
Venus  must  have  been  pretty  wet  for  the 
completest  comfort. 

Eagerly,  “This?”  Assent!  The  Professor 
was  right ! They  came  from  Mercury ! So 
far,  so  good.  Marston  took  my  other  plaque — 
the  relief  map  of  Earth. 

■ “Earth— Earth.” 

Yes,  the  Mercutian  recognized  it.  He  had 
seen  it  thus  from  space. 

With  a crystal  of  quartz,  Marston  gouged 
our  particular  section  of  South  America, 
pointed  to  the  ground,  to  the  lake,  the  forests. 

“This — this,”  he  said. 


More  approval.  They  knew  where  they 
were,  all  right.  Now  he  reopened  a closed 
subject.  “You — tetrahedra — Mercury.” 
They  sure  were ! 

“We — tetrahedra — Earth!”  Not  so  good! 
He  repeated:  “You — Mercury.  We — Earth. 
We — ^tetrahedra!”  There  were  evident  signs 
of  dissent ! Marston  swelled  the  reassurance- 
tone,  then  added  a sharp  call  to  attention, 
raised  his  gun,  fired  twice,  threw  the  weapon 
down,  and  redoubled  his  assurance  of  well- 
meaning  and  safety. 

His  aim  had  been  good.  The  flask  was 
pierced  at  top  and  bottom,  and  a thin 
stream  of  water  was  jetting  forth,  trickling 
over  the  glassy  rock  toward  us.  It  made  a 
little  pool  at  his  feet,  lipped  over,  and  the 
double  rank  of  tetrahedra  drew  back  to  let 
it  pass.  It  formed  another  little  pool,  close 
to  the  base  of  their  giant  leader.  He  wasn’t 
taking  bluffs ! A flash  of  blinding  energy 
and  the  pool  was  steam  and  the  rock  white- 
hot  ! Marston  learned  another  word. 

" W ater — d e ad!  W e — tetrahedra — Mer- 
cury— and  Earth!” 

Not  so  good!  Marston  tried  another. 

“You — tetrahedra — Mercury.  Wat  e r— 
tetrahedron — Earth !” 

An  alarming  idea  that!  Water  the  lord  of 
Earth! 

“Water — no — dead!”  Decided  negation  in 
the  drum.  He  pointed.  True  enough,  the 
steam  was  condensing  and  running  down  the 
smooth  rock  in  little  droplets.  Water  could 
not  be  killed!  It  always  came  back! 

" W e — te  trah  edra — wa  ter ! ” 

Phew ! That  was  a statement ! He  proved 
it.  He  dabbled  his  fingers  in  the  pool  at  his 
feet,  took  some  up  in  his  hand  and  slicked 
back  his  hair.  I gave  a thunderous  grunt 
by  way  of  attracting  attention,  uncapped  the 
other  canteen,  and  poured  a long  and  very 
visible  stream  of  water  down  my  throat. 
Marston  took  the  canteen  and  did  the  same, 
then  sent  me  for  more  water,  a pailful. 

“Water — tetrahedron — Earth!”  he  reiter- 
ated. He  illustrated  his  point,  dipped  water 
from  the  pail  with  much  splashing  and 
poured  it  over  my  relief  of  the  Earth,  filling 
the  hollows  of  the  seas.  He  had  another 
hunch,  rolled  Venus  around  its  orbit. 

“Water — tetrahedron — Venus?”  Oh,  de- 
cidedly. The  purple  giant  was  sure  of  that. 
Marston  tried  Mercury. 

“You — ^tetrahedra — Mercury.  Water — no 
— tetrahedron — Merucry.”  A pause.  Then 
slowly,  “ W ater — tetrahedron — you ! ” 


TETEAHEDBA  OF  SPACE  97 


And  he  was  right.  Water  had  them 
licked.  I had  a bright  idea  and  Marston 
moved  camp  to  the  brink  of  the  lake,  striding 
like  a conqueror  between  the  double  file  of 
tetrahedra.  Arrived  beside  the  water,  with 
the  giant  fairly  close  and  the  army  in  the 
background,  I stripped  and  dove  in — brought 
up  a chunk  of  half-dissolved  purple  crystal! 
Marston  rubbed  it  in  gleefully. 

“Water — tetrahadron — you!"  They  had  to 
admit  it.  Now  he  tried  to  coin  a word — 
pointed  to  the  sky  and  shuffled  syllables  on 
the  drum.  “Up — up.  Water — up.”  The  giant 
caught  on  and  supplied  the  correct  term. 
Marston  coined  a real  one — a genial,  mur- 
murous “Thank-you” — on  his  drum. 

Marston  drummed  attention  and  reassur- 
ance and  I started  demonstrating  my  little 
Solar  System  again,  while  Marston  an- 
nounced again  that  Earth  was  largely  water 
— no  fit  place  for  tetrahedra — water  that 
could  be  killed,  but  that  came  down  again  in 
rain.  He  drilled  in  the  idea  of  rain,  until  he 
was  sure  he  made  his  point.  The  etymology 
of  the  word  was  clear  to  all  concerned.  They 
knew  what  rain  was  now. 

I had  poked  a hole  through  the  soft,  thin 
rock  of  Mercury’s  orbit  and  put  clay  plugs 
in  Earth’s  orbit  at  diametrically  opposite 
points.  Now  Marston  demonstrated.  He 
poured  water  on  Mercury.  It  vanished. 

“Mercury — no — rain.  No!”  The  entire 
host  had  crowded  in  and  there  was  a general 
murmur  of  assent. 

Venus,  on  the  other  hand,  being  a deep 
groove,  held  plenty  of  water.  “Venus — rain. 
Water — tetrahedron — V enus.  ” 

They  got  that  too. 

He  moved  out  one  planet  and  I could  feel 
a tensing.  They  knew  what  he  was  driving 
at ! He  was  going  to  describe  weather-con- 
ditions of  Earth.  Half  Earth’s  orbit  held 
water  to  the  brim.  The  other  half  was  rather 
damp.  He  slowly  moved  Earth  around  her 
circles,  showing  that  six  months  were  wet  and 
six  not  so  wet.  He  took  to  the  drum  for 
emphasis. 

“ W ater — tetrahedron — Earth.  We — tetra- 
hedron— water.  Water — tetradron — you."  A 
delicate  inference.  Then  slowly,  emphatically, 
“Water — Venus.  Water — Earth.”  And  now 
his  final  card. 

He  set  Mercury  in  its  orbit,  placed  Venus 
almost  opposite,  paused.  The  giant  assented 
That  was  where  the  planets  were  at  present. 
He  skipped  Earth  and  went  to  Mars,  rolled 
it  along  its  orbit,  stopped  it.  Assent.  All 


true,  so  far.  And  now  I saw  his  point  for, 
when  he  dropped  Earth  in  place,  very  nearly 
in  line  between  Mars  and  Mercury,  it  fell  in 
the  middle  of  the  dry  half  of  the  orbit! 

A hundred  tetrahedra  slid  back  a yard  or 
so  in  recoil.  This  rain  which  had  drowned 
out  practically  all  of  their  army  was  an 
example  of  our  dry  season ! By  inference, 
our  real  wet  weather  must  have  been  sheer 
Mercutian  hell  to  every  tetrahedron  of  them ! 

But  Marston  was  too  good  a diplomat  to 
give  them  a hands  off  without  suggesting  an 
alternative.  He  slowly  poured  water  on 
Mars.  Mars  apparently  and  actually  had  a 
hole  in  its  bottom,  for  it  drained  bone  dry. 
Mars,  now,  was  very  nice.  But  Earth  was 
nasty  and  wet,  as  bad  as  Venus  or  worse. 
And  it  was  inhabited  by  a race  of  super- 
intelligent  fish,  to  judge  from  the  impression 
he  gave  the  tetrahedra.  He  picked  up  the 
drum  for  a last  word. 

“Earths — rain.  Mars — no — rain.  We — 

Earth.  You — no — Earth.  You — Mars?”  He 
dwelt  on  the  question.  “Mars?  Mars???”  He 
rolled  out  an  endless  questionmark,  then  sud- 
denly quit,  took  a long,  flashing  drink  of 
water  from  the  flask,  and  dove  into  the  lake, 
clothes  and  all.  I followed  him,  and  together 
we  splashed  to  the  other  shore,  making  our 
mastery  of  the  water  very  evident.  If  things, 
worked  out,  all  well  and  good.  If  they  didn’t 
well,  we  had  the  lake  between  us. 

And  it  did  work!  For  a moment  they 
stood  motionless,  the  mighty  sixteen-foot 
tetrahedron  of  royal  purple  and  his  eight- 
foot  purple  retinue,  silent,  considering.  Then 
came  a sudden  comand,  and  the  hundred 
flowed  in  orderly  motion  to  the  spheres, 
entered.  Their  mighty  master  was  alone.  For 
an  instant  he  hesitated,  then  swept  forward 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  lake.  From  this 
towering  peak  beat  the  white  lightnings, 
lashing  the  purple  waters  into  great  billowing 
clouds  of  steam  that  threw  up  a dense  wall  of 
mist  between  us!  Through  the  hiss  of  the 
steam  came  his  thunderous  voice,  in  last 
comment  upon  the  invasion  of  his  tetrahedral 
race!  Marston  translated,  softly. 

“Water — tetrahedron — Earth.  Y ou — tet- 
rahedron— water.  We — kill — water!  You — 
Earth.  We — Mars.  Mars!" 

Up  from  behind  the  wall  of  “killed”  water 
rose  two  great,  glorious  pearls,  marvelously 
opalescent  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun — up 
and  up,  smaller  and  smaller,  until  they 
vanished  into  the  deepening  blue  above  the 
Andes.  Ironically,  it  began  to  rain. 


TARGET  NO.  1 


FIRST 
TARGET 
IN  STAGE 

Stf  (R.  <£.  J’OJimwoJdh 


INCE  the  earliest  days  of  the  Indus- 
trial Revolution  there  has  been  the 
realization,  in  both  the  minds  of 
scientists  and  of  an  intensely  interested  pub- 
lic, that  Man  would  soon  possess  the  tools 
to  lift  him  from  the  surface  of  the  Earth  to- 
ward the  myriad  worlds  that  accompany  him 
so  faithfully  through  the  abyss  of  space. 
While  the  tools  to  implement  the  great  dream 
have  seemed  slow  in  coming,  they  have,  in 
fact,  developed  with  a'  seemingly  single- 
minded  cosmic  purpose,  since  each  source  of 
power,  newly  found,  has  been  greater  than 
the  last. 

The  first  to  realize  the  strength  with 
which  Man  was  girding  himself  was  Jules 
Verne  who,  with  his  impractical  “Moon- 
Cannon,”  was  the  first  to  use  existing  me- 
chanical means  to  conquer  the  depths  be- 
tween Earth  and  Moon.  Ironically  enough, 
Verne  utilized  the  proper  method,  the  rocket, 
as  an  auxiliary  measure  to  check  the  fall  of 
his  projectile  back  upon  the  Earth. 

The  Problem  of  Finance 

Today  we  have  it  in  our  power  to  reach 
the  surface  of  our  satellite.  The  great  de- 
velopment of  the  liquid  fuel  rocket  in  World 
War  II  gives  us  the  tool.  And,  as  a sure 
thing,  atomic  energy  is  now  in  our  posses- 
sion. 

The  only  problem  remaining  is  the  one  of 
finance.  If  you  doubt  this,  recall  what  was 
said  before  the  War  in  regard  to  atomic 


power.  It  was  said  that  it  would  not  be  real- 
ized for  easily  a hundred  years.  Yet  two 
billion  dollars  was  sufficient  not  only  to  bring 
it  to  fruition,  but  soon  enough  to-be  used  as  a 
military  weapon. 

The  same  situation  exists  with  the  rocket. 
Given  the  funds,  a rocket  today  could  reach 
the  Moon. 

Why  Reach  for  the  Moon? 

Curiously  enough,  now  that  we  have  it  in 
our  power  to  reach  the  Moon,  there  is  a great 
hue  and  cry  as  to  why  we  should  want  to  do 
so!  Well,  why  should  we?  What  do  we 
know  about  the  Moon?  What  makes  our 
nearest  large  neighbor  in  space  Rocket  Tar- 
get Number  One? 

Physically,  we  think  that  we  know  the  fol- 
lowing facts  about  our  target.  The  Moon 
has  a diameter  of  2,160  miles  and  revolves 
about  the  Earth  once  every  twenty-seven 
days  and  eight  hours,  at  a mean  distance  of 
239,000  miles.  Its  total  area  is  approximate- 
ly fifteen  million  square  miles,  which,  since 
it  seems  to  have  no  bodies  of  water — at  least 
on  the  visible  side — gives  it  a land  area  equal 
to  a little  less  than  the  combined  land  area  of 
North  and  South  America. 

A Forbidding  Picture 

Most  popular  books  on  astronomy  tell  us 
that  the  Moon  has  neither  air  nor  water  and 
that  the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  crater 


"AH  Aboard  for  a Trip  to  the  Moon” 


formations  which  cover  its  surface  are  due 
to  meteoric  action  upon  a world  without 
weather  or  subsequent  erosion.  Tempera- 
tures given  are  estimated  to  vary  between 
120°C  in  the  daytime  to  80  °C  during  the 
long  night. 

However,  this  has  not  been  definitely  de- 
termined. Generally  there  is  added  a note  to 
the  effect  that  nothing  ever  happens  on  the 
Moon,  and  that  it  is  a dead  world.  Naturally, 
with  this  forbidding  picture,  the  public  in 
general  has  been  unable  to  become  greatly 
enthused  over  the  rocket-to-the-Moon.  How- 


ever there  are  other  and  more  interesting 
considerations. 

They  All  Had  an  Idea 

Historically,  our  satellite,  larger  in  pro- 
portion to  Earth  than  any  other  planet’s 
moon — the  Moon  is  only  slightly  smaller 
than  the  planet  Mercury — has  evoked  great 
and  sustained  interest  through  the  ages. 

Four  thousand  years  ago  the  ancient  Hin- 
dus thought  of  the  Moon  as  a vessel  full  of 
sacred  wine,  a kind  of  miraculous  pitcher 


The  president 
of  the 

United  States 
Rocket  Society 
lists  points 
of  interest 
you'll  want 
to  see  on 
a trip  you 
may  be  taking 
sooner 

than  you  think! 




■,»  i7< 


99 


R.  L.  FARNSWORTH 


STABTUNG  STORIES 


100 

that  waned  as  the  wine  was  drunk,  but  al- 
ways filled  itself  again!  In  the  name  of  the 
Moon  they  drank  on  all  state  occasions. 

Later,  according  to  Herodotus,  the  tireless 
Greek  historian,  the  Persians,  lords  of  the 
then  lush  Middle  East,  deliberated  on 
weighty  affairs  while  drinking  in  the  name 
of  the  Moon  1 And  reconsidered,  when  sober  1 
That  was  not  such  a bad  custom. 

"But,”  continues  the  curious  Greek, 
"sometimes  they  deliberate  when  sober  and 
decide  when  drunk  I ” 

Strangely  enough,  all  through  the  ancient 
times  of  Man,  the  Moon,  glorious  in  the  clear 
skies  of  earlier  cultures,  was  worshiped  in 
particularly  romantic  fashion.  Such  provoca- 
tive goddesses  of  antiquity  as  Diana,  Arte- 
mis, Ishtar  and  Selene  all  testify  to  the 
feminine,  inconsistent  nature  of  the  Moon. 
Inconsistent  because  of  the  impossible  strug- 
gle of  all  earlier  mathematicians  to  reconcile 
the  Lunar  motions  with  those  of  the  Sun  for 
calendar  purposes!  Also,  always  feminine, 
due  to  the  inexplicable  coincidence  of  the 
natural  functions  of  women  agreeing  with 
the  twenty-eight  day  phases  of  the  Moon. 

Since  the  very  dawn  of  vision,  Man  has 
yearned  t6  catch  a glimpse  of  the  unseen  side 
of  the  Moon.  While  six-tenths  of  the  Moon 
can  be  seen,  due  to  irregularities  in  its  mo- 
tion, selenography — the  science  of  Lunar 
map  making — can  never  show  us  the  other 
four-tenths  of  her  shattered  landscape.  For- 
ever veiled  to  us,  from  Earth  a constant 
challenge,  this  unseen  side  of  the  Moon  has 
caused  uncounted  minds,  both  popular  and 
scientific,  to  speculate. 

A One-Way  Trip! 

Today  we  know  but  one  thing  about  the 
hidden  face  of  our  astral  companion,  and  that 
is  that  it  is  the  perfect  base  from  which  to 
manufacture  atomic  rockets  with  which  to 
blast  helpless  humanity  on  Earth! 

When  we  think  of  a rocket-to-the-Moon 
we  are  accustomed  to  think  of  a one-way  trip, 
with  unutterably  harsh  conditions  upon  ar- 
rival. The  facts  are  that  not  one,  but  several 
rockets  would  be  sent  to  the  Moon  at  the 
same  time,  perhaps  only  one  containing  pas- 
sengers. The  rest,  radio-controlled,  would 
contain  supplies,  laboratories,  and  serve  as 
additional  buildings  once  they  had  landed. 

To  return  to  Earth  would  be  a much  sim- 
pler matter  than  is  generally  supposed.  The 
present  velocity  of  the  captured  German  V-2 


rocket,  which  is  one  and  a half  miles  per 
second,  is  exactly  the  escape  velocity  neces- 
sary to  take  a rocket  from  the  Moon  to  the 
Earth.  It  is  not  too  much  to  suppose  that 
the  V-2  has  been  greatly  improved  upon 
during  its  tenure  in  the  United  States,  nor 
to  suggest  that  return  rockets  could  be  taken 
along,  piece-meal  if  necessary,  to  provide  for 
a return  to  Earth. 

Living  on  the  Moon  in  air-tight  structures 
would  certainly  be  easier  of  accomplishment 
than  sustaining  life  in  a submarine  or  a stra- 
tosphere plane.  Both  are  greatly  restricted, 
due  to  the  necessity  of  movement. 

Once  on  the  Moon,  the  possibilities  for 
scientific  research  are  immense.  As  an  as- 
tronomical observatory,  as  a physics,  biologi- 
cal, and  photographic  laboratory,  as  a master 
weather  station  from  which  to  note  and  relay 
advance  weather  information  to  Earth,  for 
the  study  of  cosmic  radiations  and  the  struc- 
ture of  the  Sun  and  Stars.  For  all  of  these 
purposes  the  cost  of  exploration  would  be 
paid  a million  times  over. 

Is  It  a "Dead"  World? 

Solar  energy  could  be  utilized  for  power, 
and  should  the  “craters”  be  found  to  be  of 
volcanic  origin,  what  heavy  metals  exist  on 
the  Moon  should  be  well  distributed  upon  the 
surface.  All  science  on  Earth  is  doomed  to 
work  forever  beneath  a layer  of  atmosphere, 
about  which  little  is  known,  and  through 
which  all  observations,  astronomic  and  spec- 
troscopic, must  be  taken — with  what  aberra- 
tions we  do  not  know. 

Now,  about  this  “dead”  world.  In  regard 
to  the  craters,  J.  E.  Spurr,  in  his  "Geology 
Applied  to  Selenology”  gives  a masterly  ex- 
position of  the  volcanic  origin  of  the  craters 
as  opposed  to  the  prevailing  meteoric  theory. 
Since  not  within  the  memory  of  historical 
astronomy  has  a meteor  ever  been  seen  to 
make  a crater,  and  since  there  have  been 
changes  observed  on  the  Moon,  the  theory  of 
vulcanism  lends  credence  to  the  thought  that 
the  Moon  is  not  yet  entirely  "dead.”  Before 
1866  the  crater  Linne  was  used  as  a refer- 
ence point,  and  was  a definitely  dark  object. 
Today  it  is  light  colored  and  of  little  use  for 
a base  point. 

Up  to  April,  1871,  there  were  over  1,600 
recorded  observations  of  fluctuations  of 
lights  in  the  crater  Plato  and  thirty-seven 
graphs  of  the  appearance.  All  such  records 
are  now  on  file  in  the  Library  of  the  Royal 


FIRST  TARGET  IN  SPACE 


Astronomical  Society. 

The  American  astronomer,  Wm.  Picker- 
ing, reported  moving  gray  spots  in  Eratos- 
thenes. Lights  have  been  observed  in  the 
following  craters — Bessel,  Copernicus,  Ari- 
starchus, Linne,  Plato,  Carlini,  Eudoxus  and 
Proclus.  A bright  spot  was  seen  west  of 
Picard  on  March  23  and  on  March  26, 
1909.  On  Dec.  19,  1919  a black  mark  was 
observed  near  Littrow,  and  on  Jan.  31,  1915, 
white  spots  were  seen  in  Littrow.  On  Sept. 
13,  1889,  a black  spot  with  a white  border 
was  seen  in  Plinius  and  a veritable  light- 
house was  observed  in  Aristarchus  c«i  May 
7,  1867,  and  again  on  Nov.  7,  1891. 

Dark  triangular  patches  have  been  seen 
moving  on  the  Moon  and  for  a hundred  and 
twenty  years  flashes  of  light  have  been  seen 
on  Mare  Crisium.  On  May  13,  1870,  there 
was  an  “extraordinary”  display  of  lights  on 
Plato  and  a luminous  triangle  was  seen  on 
the  floor  of  Plato  on  Nov.  23,  1887.  And  on 
Aug.  29,  1917  a luminous  object  was  seen 
moving  within  Plato.  Incidentally,  Plato  is 
sixty  miles  in  diameter,  and  has  walls  five 
thousand  feet  high. 

How  About  Air? 

As  to  atmosphere  on  this  “dead”  world. 
Contrary  to  opinion  there  have  been  many 
instances  of  stars  that  have  been  reported 
out  of  place  when  occulted  by  the  Moon.  Yet 
astronomy  will  tell  you  that  the  Moon  has  no 
air  because  stars  are  not  refracted  when  the 
Moon  passes  in  front  of  them.  On  Oct.  10, 
1916  a reddish  shadow  was  seen  over  Plato, 
and  some  of  the  craters  have  evinced  a 
change  of  color  in  the  crater  floor  with  the 
coming  of  the  Lrmar  day.  On  Feb.  28,  1885, 
a dull  deep  red  color  appeared  in  Hercules 
and  two  days  later  a reddish  smtdce  or  mist 
was  seen  in  Cassini. 

While  a large  telescojre  brings  us  to  within 
five  hundred  miles  of  the  Moon,  objects 
smaller  than  the  Capitol  at  Washington 
would  not  show  up  well,  with  the  exception 
of  lights.  While  the  surface  of  the  Moon, 


101 

which  we  see,  is  better  known  and  mapped 
than  the  Earth,  the  topography — mountains, 
plains,  depressions,  cliffs  and  clefts — all  are 
totally  unlike  any  on  Earth. 

There  Is  Light — There  May  Be  Life 

The  section  of  the  Moon  near  the  Hyginus 
chasm  shows  formations  so  far  from  anything 
on  Earth  that  we  can  not  even  guess  what 
they  are  or  what  caused  them.  There  is  a 
great  “valley,”  ninety  miles  long  and  six 
miles  wide,  connecting  Mare  Imbrium  with 
Mare  Frigoris.  And  there  is  the  great  “wall” 
near  Thebit. 

But  there  have  been  stranger  observations 
than  those  of  the  textbooks.  A formation 
shaped  like  a sword  lies  near  Birt.  A geo- 
metric “X”  has  been  seen  in  Eratosthenes. 
A peculiar  “sign”  in  Plinius.  Angular  lines 
in  Gassendi.  Reticulations  in  the  dark  floor 
of  Plato.  In  Dec.  1915,  a black  wall  to  the 
ramparts  of  Aristillus  was  seen  as  a ikw 
formation.  On  May  4,  1922,  three  long 
mounds  were  seen  in  Archimedes,  which 
have  since  disappeared. 

If  you  are  wondering  why  more  observa- 
tions have  not  been  made  of  changes  on  the 
Moon  you  can  be  referred  to  a recent  query 
raised  among  astronomers  themselves.  It 
was,  “What  has  happened  to  selenography?” 

The  fact  is  that  the  Moon  is  seldom  ob- 
served by  the  great  observatories.  Being  un- 
able to  solve  the  problems  of  the  Moon,  com- 
paratively close  at  hand,  they  have  turned 
their  attention  to  resolving  the  riddles  of  the 
Universe — at  much  greater  distances. 

There  have  been  too  many  authenticated 
observations  of  changes  taking  place  on  the 
Moon  to  label  it  a dead  world.  Nowhere  in 
the  cosmos  is  there  death,  if  by  death  is 
meant  the  cessation  of  all  activity.  The  story 
of  the  Universe  is'  the  story  of  constant 
movement.  On  the  Moon  there  is  movement, 
there  is  light,  there  may  be,  of  a kind — 
LIFE. 

The  Moon  remains  Rocket  Target  Num- 
ber One! 


o 


Next  Issue’s  Headliners:  AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT,  a complete 
novel  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke— THE  ISOTOPE  MEN,  a Hall  of  Fame 
Classic  by  Festus  Pragnell — DORMANT,  a story  by  A.  E.  Van 
Vogt— THE  UNSPEAKABLE  MclNCH,  a Magnus 
Ridolph  story  by  Jack  Vance — and  many  others! 


SHENADIJN 

Explorer  Gowan  Mitchell  battles  to  conquer  the  challenge 
of  the  strange  mountain— and  make  it  reveal  its  secrets! 


Me  had  hammered  the  piton  into  a crack  in  the  unthinkably  aged  rock.  By  rights 
the  last  hundred  feet  of  the  ascent  should  have  been  gentle,  easy.  Here  on  the 
roof  of  the  world,  on  the  white  shining  summit  of  Shenadun,  the  bitter  wind  ham- 
mered at  him,  screamed  shrill  warnings  in  his  ears.  There  should  have  been  a gentle  slope. 

He  wanted  to  weep.  It  was  unthinkable  that  he,  Gowan  Mitchell,  should  weep  in  frus- 
tration— and  at  a stubborn  mountain. 

As,  buffeted  by  the  wind,  he  threaded  the  rope  through  the  eye  of  the  piton,  he  thought 
of  other  tears  and  other  mountains.  Peaks  in  the 
Swiss  Alps,  the  Canadian  Rockies.  But  those  had 
been  tears  of  joy,  tears  to  express  the  deep,  throb- 
bing emotion  that  had  always  filled  him  when  he 
stood,  alone  and  free  on  the  top  of  a mountain. 

The  first  hill,  for  it  was  but  a hill,  he  had  climbed 
had  been  in  Scotland  when  he  was  twelve,  twenty- 
seven  years  ago.  That  had  been  the  beginning  of 
the  disease. 

But  this  mountain,  a sister  of  Everest,  had  been 
incredibly  difficult.  It  had  defeated  him  last  year, 
sent  him  home  beaten,  his  tail  between  his  legs, 

Ey  JOHN  D, 
l^aclXINALD 


102 


STARTLING  STORIES 


104 

his  broken  shoulder  in  a cast. 

Shenadun ! Stranger  than  Everest,  strong- 
er in  the  superstition  of  those  who  lived  in 
the  tropical  valleys  and  watched  the  high  bit- 
ter shoulders  of  the  Himalayas ! 

Fortunate  for  Gowan  Mitchell  that  he  had 
inherited  the  money  that  made  it  possible  for 
him  to  spend  his  life  conquering  the  high 
places  of  the  world. 

He  paused  after  having  drawn  some  of 
the  rope  through  the  eyelet  of  the  piton, 
reached  a numb  hand  to  the  snap  on  his 
shoulder,  unhooked  the  flexible  tube  and  gave 
himself  a careful  measure  of  oxygen,  being 
careful  not  to  take  too  much.  Too  much 
would  have  made  him  giddy,  would  have 
made  the  careful  handholds  and  footholds 
less  secure.  He  inhaled  just  enough  for  life 
and  strength,  and  to  combat  the  numbing 
weakness  of  the  almost  incredible  altitude  of 
Shenadun. 

This  mountain  climbing  feat  was  costing 
him  ten  thousand  pounds.  It  would  make  a 
small  hole  in  the  estate  but  not  too  large  a 
hole.  He  would  have  enough  left  for  future 
attempts,  but  there  would  be  no  future  efforts 
on  a scale  such  as  this  one.  After  Shenadun 
was  conquered  he  would  be  content  with  less 
difficult  peaks.  After  all,  he  thought,  I am 
thirty-nine.  The  conquest  of  Shenadun  will 
give  me  immortality  among  those  who  climb. 

But  he  knew  that  he  would  continue  to 
climb  until  at  last  he  died.  There  could  be 
nothing  for  him  in  the  cities  of  men.  His 
mind  and  his  heart  would  always  be  fixed  on 
the  high  places.  The  cities  of  men  were  drab 
small  places,  overrun  with  life.  For  him  there 
could  be  only  the  clean  cruel  wind  of  the 
ceiling  of  the  world,  the  aching  slow  prog- 
ress up  a chimney  of  rock,  the  clink  of  an 
ice  axe,  the  thunder  of  the  avalanche. 

It  was  good  luck  to  have  found  the  bare 
rock  where  pitons  could  be  planted.  He 
thought  of  the  man  who  clung,  patient  and 
brave,  thirty  feet  below  him  and  he  smiled. 
He  would  have  a witness  when  he  reached 
the  summit.  The  spearhead  of  the  enormous 
effort  expressed  by  the  eight  camps  stretched 
out  down  the  flank  of  the  mountain,  a day’s 
hard  climb  apart,  where  even  now  chilled 
numb  hands  held  binoculars  to  eager  eyes 
and  men  with  white  rime  on  their  ragged 
beards  looked  aloft  and  cursed  the  storm  that 
cut  off  all  vision. 

1^,'0’TTCHELL’S  climbing  partner  for  the 
.i-Tm  final  attack  was  Joseph  Garmon.  Gar- 


mon was  brave,  strong,  agile  and  selfless. 
Gowan  Mitchell  knew  that  he  couldn’t  have 
a better  partner  for  the  last  assault  on  the 
virgin  peak,  and  it  was  essential  to  his  plans 
that  Joseph  Garmon  must  be  along.  Had  it 
been  a gentle  slope  at  the  summit,  Mitchell 
would  have  climbed  it  alone. 

He  looked  down,  saw  the  red,  windbeaten 
face  of  Garmon.  He  tightened  the  rope 
through  the  piton,  gave  the  arm  signal  to 
Gannon  to  climb  up  to  him.  He  took  a turn 
around  the  shank  of  the  piton,  and  pulled 
in  the  slack  carefully  as  the  man  below  him, 
slow  and  cautious,  facing  the  rock  wall,  came 
up  like  some  strange  bearlike  animal. 

That  ascent  would  have  been  impossible 
without  assistance  from  Joseph  Garmon,  the 
American.  As  it  was,  he  would  have  to 
share  the  glory  with  Garmon,  and  yet  he 
would  be  the  first  human  to  stand  on  the 
peak. 

His  thoughts  snapped  back  to  instant  at- 
tention as  Garmon  slipped,  and  the  rope 
tightened.  Mitchell  took  another  turn  around 
the  shank  of  the  piton.  There,  it  was  firm! 
The  wind  clawed  at  Garmon,  swinging  him 
out  away  from  the  rock  wall.  Garmon  swung 
in  against  the  wall,  hit  heavily,  scrabbled 
for  a handhold. 

At  that  moment  a free  end  of  the  rope  was 
flung  up — and  Joseph  Garmon  was  gone. 
Gompletely  gone,  as  though  he  had  never 
existed.  The  flurry  of  ice  below  cut  off 
Gowan  Mitchell’s  view.  He  shut  his  eyes  for 
a moment.  The  body  of  Garmon  would  fall 
free  for  a hundred  feet,  hit  the  incredibly 
steep  ice  and  slide  down  and  down,  at  last 
going  over  the  brink  that  would  mean  a free 
fall  to  the  glacier  two  thousand  feet  below. 

He  had  a sudden  feeling  of  sickness.  Now 
he  would  be  the  only  man  to  reach  the  sum- 
mit of  Shenadun. 

In  a matter  of  moments  he  was  standing 
on  the  piton,  reaching  above  for  handholds. 
He  found  a crack  in  the  rock,  wide  enough 
for  his  gloved  fingers  as  he  reached  for  an- 
other foothold.  Getting  the  handhold,  he 
carefully  and  cautiously  raised  himself  high- 
er, allowing  for  the  blind  fury  of  the  wind. 
And  now  the  rock  wall  was  gone,  and  his 
fingers  were  touching  the  firm  sheen  of  ice. 
He  got  the  ice  ax  free,  drove  it  in  deeply 
and,  clinging  to  the  haft,  pulled  himself  up 
over  the  brink  into  the  full  grasp  of  the  wind. 
He  stood  at  last  on  the  summit  of  Shenadun ! 

For  all  he  could  see  of  the  world  below, 
he  might  have  been  standing  on  a small  knoll 


SHENADUN 


in  the  middle  of  an  endless  plain. 

The  summit  was  shaped  like  a vast  has- 
sock, cylindrical,  with  a faintly  rounded  top. 
The  rock  wall  up  which  he  had  j^st  come 
was  duplicated,  he  knew,  on  all  sides  of  the 
gently  sloping  central  portion  of  the  hassock. 
Filled  with  fierce  exaltation,  he  lowered  his 
head  against  the  blast  and  fought  his  way  to 
the  exact  center  of  the  round  dome.  It  wasn’t 
a long  walk.  The  summit  must  have  been 
two  hundred  yards  across,  and  from  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  to  the  center  of  the  summit  meant 
a rise  of  only  ten  or  twelve  feet.  He  walked 
on  the  shale  ice  of  ages  past. 

He  knelt  and,  with  numb  hands,  took  out 
tlie  jointed  aluminum  flagstaff,  fitted  it  to- 
gether and  planted  it  in  the  hole  he  dug  with 
the  point  of  his  ice  ax.  The  flag  of  his  coun- 
try whipf>ed  in  the  wind.  At  the  base  of  the 
shaft  he  buried  the  little  metal  container 
that  had  been  prepared — his  name  and  the 
date,  and  the  name  of  Joseph  Carmon. 

All  around  him  was  a white  and  blowing 
wildness.  It  was  time  to  return.  He  must 
huny  down. 

He  stopped  dead  in  his  tracks,  leaning 
against  the  wind  that  sought  to  tear  him  from 
the  summit  and  fling  him  out  into  space. 

He  wondered  stupidly  why  he  hadn’t 
thought  of  it  before.  There  could  be  no  de- 
scent without  Joseph  Carmon.  They  might 
send  rescuers  tomorrow,  but  by  tomorrow  he 
would  be  frozen,  as  dead  and  as  rigid  as  the 
eternal  ice. 

So  this  was  the  end  of  it  all.  This  was  the 
end  of  the  high,  wild,  hard  life.  Here  against 
the  sky  that  would  soon  turn  to  night.  He 
shivered,  took  another  measured  amount  of 
the  oxygen.  Not  a scrap  of  food.  No  small 
gasoline  stove.  Tliose  items  had  been  left 
behind  for  the  sake  of  speed  during  the  final 
dash  to  the  summit. 

Out  of  his  long  experience  he  knew  that 
there  would  be  no  use  trying  to  return  the 
way  he  had  come.  There  were  pitches  that 
could  only  be  negotiated  by  two  men,  work- 
ing with  perfect  coordination.  For  a man 
alone  they  w^ere  impossible. 

It  was  a choice  of  ways  to  die.  He  could 
fall  through  the  thin  frigid  air  to  shatter 
against  the  shoulders  of  the  mountain,  or  re- 
main on  the  summit.  It  would  be  a high  wild 
grave. 

Abruptly  the  wind  stopped.  Above  him 
the  sky  was  a clear  gray.  He  walked  weakly 
to  the  edge  and  looked  down.  He  could  not 
see  the  camps,  of  course.  He  stood  and  waved 


105 

his  arms.  They  would  see  him.  They  would 
know  that  he  had  done  it.  Soberly  he  turned 
and  walked  back,  slumped  on  the  ice  near 
the  aluminum  shaft.  His  mind  was  made  up. 
It  was  an  end  to  adventure.  It  would  be  an 
easy  death,  bringing  a bit  of  fear,  maybe — 
fear  of  the  unknown.  Then  as  he  began  to 
freeze,  his  blood  would  slow  and  he  would 
become  comfortably  and  deliciously  warm. 
He  would  flatten  his  cheek  against  the  ice 
and  find  eternal  rest  against  the  changeless 
sky. 

Death  could  come  with  the  night.  There 
would  be  another  two  hours  of  fading  day- 
light and  for  those  two  hours  he  would  be 
master  of  the  mountaintop.  King  of  Shena- 
dun.  He  smiled  bitterly.  The  King  would 
survey  his  domain.  He  no  longer  felt  the 
need  of  oxygen  now  that  the  exertion  of 
climbing  was  done.  Yes,  he  would  make  a 
circuit  of  his  kingdom  and  have  a last  look 
at  the  world. 

He  left  the  bit  of  rope  and  his  other 
equipment  by  the  aluminum  shaft. 
With  only  his  ice  ax  he  walked  toward  the 
cliff.  There  was  no  sound  in  all  the  world 
now  that  the  wind  had  stopped.  It  had 
cleared  so  that  he  could  see  other  peaks.  Far 
off  to  the  southeast  was  Everest.  It  would 
have  been  better  to  die  on  the  summit  of 
Everest.  Far  better. 

He  turned  away  from  it  angrily.  For 
many  minutes  he  could  not  recover  his  calm, 
could  not  reconcile  himself  again  to  the  death 
that  awaited  him.  Just  one  more  peak  to 
climb,  just  one  more  moment  to  feel  the  sun 
on  his  bronzed  face. 

An  odd  thing  caught  his  attention.  From 
a deep  rift  in  the  ice  of  the  peak,  a runnel 
of  ice,  like  a frozen  stream  of  water,  went 
over  the  brink.  He  jammed  the  point  of  his 
ax  into  the  ice  and  leaned  over  the  brink. 
Odd!  It  was  like  an  enormous  icicle.  The 
rift  was  narrow,  and  only  a few  feet  long. 
Odd  that  ice  should  run  from  it,  as  though 
warm  air  came  up  through  the  rift. 

He  dropped  on  his  face  and  peered  down 
into  the  blackness  of  the  rift.  Could  that  be  a 
faint  breath  of  warmth?  Not  real  warmth, 
but  merely  air  a few  degrees  warmer  than 
the  forty  below  temperature  of  the  summit. 

Trembling  in  excitement,  he  pulled  off  his 
glove  and  stretched  his  numbed  hand  down 
into  the  rift.  It  was  warmer!' 

He  had  no  time  to  reason  why.  There 
could  be  no  logical  reason.  All  he  could  think 


STARTUNG  STORIES 


106 

of  was  to  get  down  closer  to  that  warmtli. 
He  got  to  his  feet,  braced  himself  and  began 
to  work  with  the  wide  edge  of  the  ice  axe, 
using  the  practised  strokes  of  a man  who 
could  cut  thousands  of  steps  in  the  ice  in  a 
day.  With  each  almost  leisurely  swing,  a 
lump  of  shining  ice  jumped  clear  of  the  bite 
of  the  edge.  He  angled  his  strokes  so  that 
the  chips  bounced  out  of  the  rift,  out  of  the 
odd  crack  across  the  ice  surface. 

In  time  he  felt  the  need  to  go  back  after 
the  oxygen.  A few  breaths  helped  him.  The 
exertion  was  making  him  warmer.  Eventu- 
ally he  had  hollowed  out  each  wall  so  that  he 
could  lower  himself  down  into  the  rift,  his 
head  below  the  surface  of  the  summit.  It  did 
seem  warmer.  Much  warmer. 

Working  down  in  the  rift  was  much  more 
difficult.  For  a time  he  was  able  to  shove  the 
ice  chips  into  the  other  portion  of  the  rift, 
then  that  became  filled  and  he  was  forced  to 
widen  the  part  on  which  he  stood  so  that  the 
chips  would  not  fall  back  to  where  he  wished 
next  to  strike. 

He  began  to  lose  track  of  time.  He  felt 
weak  and  dizzy  and  when  he  next  tried  the 
oxygen  flask,  it  was  empty.  Angrily  he  flung 
it  up  over  the  side.  Forcing  himself  to  work, 
and  yet  avoiding  breaking  into  a fatal  sweat, 
he  cut  his  way  down  through  the  steel-gray 
ice. 

His  strokes  grew  awkward  as  space  be- 
:ame  more  constricted.  The  sides  were  be- 
ginning to  be  too  high  to  throw  the  loose 
ice  out.  Soon  he  would  have  to  stop.  And 
he  had  not,  as  yet,  found  the  origin  of  the 
warmer  air. 

He  swung  his  ax  and,  in  the  still  air,  it 
made  an  odd  sound.  Metallic,  one  might  say. 
He  thought  that  he  might  be  down  to  rock. 
The  daylight  was  fading.  He  struck  again, 
got  down  onto  hands  and  knees  and  brushed 
the  ice  flakes  away  from  a smooth  surface. 

Metal ! 

It  was  clear,  gray-blue,  flawless  metal. 
Metal  that  had  been  machined ! Across  the 
space  he  had  cleared  was  a curved  line  in  the 
substance,  a joining,  like  a portion  of  a circle. 
He  pulled  his  glove  off  again  and  held  his 
hand  against  the  metal.  It  was  barely 
warmer. 

Oxygen  starvation  was  making  his  mind 
giddy  and  foolish.  He  laughed  aloud.  It  was 
absurd ! He,  Gowan  Mitchell  was  the  first  to 
climb  Shenadun ! This  was  a mirage.  No  one 
could  have  been  here  before  him,  burying 
metal  monstrosities  in  the  ice. 


He  uncovered  the  clean  crack  in  the  metal 
and  discovered  that  it  was  a perfect  circle, 
but  not  a trap  door  for  a man  to  go  through. 
It  was  too  large  to  be  designed  for  that.  He 
saw  where  the  warmer  air  escaped.  At  one 
point  the  circular  crack  was  a tiny  bit  wider 
than  at  any  other  part..^ 

Grunting,  he  forced  the  point  of  his  ice 
axe  down  into  the  crack.  He  tried  to  pry  but 
it  slipped  out  with  a pinging  noise.  He  could 
feel  himself  growing  weaker.  He  tried  again, 
and  again  it  slipped.  Night  was  coming  fast. 
For  the  second  time  in  a few  hours,  the  tears 
of  frustration  filled  his  eyes.  The  third  at- 
tempt caused  a small  grating  noise  and,  as 
he  pried,  the  round  plug  tilted,  turning  in 
the  hole  so  that  it  was  on  edge,  a semicircu- 
lar opening  on  each  side. 

Grinning  idiotically,  he  dropped  onto  his 
face,  the  ice  ax  in  his  hand  and  reached  down 
into  the  blackness.  He  touched  nothing. 
Warm  air  came  from  the  opening.  Warm 
breathable  air,  but  not  enough  to  keep  him 
alive,  though  he  spent  the  night  on  his  stom- 
ach, his  head  in  the  opening. 

He  must  enter  the  hole  or  die.  That  had 
become  the  choice.  Before  it  had  been  a 
choice  of  two  ways  of  dying.  Maybe  this 
was  better.  He  wondered  if  he  had  enough 
strength  to  hang  by  his  hands  from  the  edge 
and  see  if  his  feet  touched  anything.  But 
strength  evaporated  even  as  he  thought  of  it. 
He  reached  under  his  mountain  jacket,  pulled 
his  knife  from  its  sheath  and  dropped  it  into 
the  hole.  It  thudded  against  something,  but 
he  couldn’t  tell  how  far  below.  Sense  of 
elapsing  time  goes  astray  with  oxygen  star- 
vation. 

OT  to  enter  the  hole  was  to  die  any- 
way. He  lowered  his  feet  into  it,  sat  on 
the  edge  for  a moment,  then  turned,  his 
stomach  against  the  edge.  His  elbow  slipped 
on  an  ice  fragment  and,  with  a cry  of  alarm, 
he  slid,  feet  first,  into  the  blackness.  The 
back  of  his  head  hit  the  metal  plug.  He  fell 
fifteen  feet  and  landed  on  a yielding  surface. 
He  looked  up  barely  in  time  to  see  the  plug, 
turned  by  the  impact,  settle  back  into  place. 

He  was  in  utter  and  complete  darkness. 
The  surface  under  his  feet  sloped  gently.  He 
stretched  out  a hand  and  felt  a smooth  metal 
wall  at  his  elbow.  In  a moment  he  located 
the  other  wall.  The  air  was  warmer.  Warm 
enough  to  sustain  life,  and  there  was  more 
oxygen  in  it.  On  hands  and  knees,  he  found 
his  knife,  replaced  it  in  its  sheath. 


SHENADUN  107 


His  mind  wouldn’t  work  properly.  He 
thought,  I am  in  a sort  of  corridor  on  a soft 
floor  which  slants.  It  seems  to  be  about  ten 
feet  wide.  I don’t  know  where  it  goes.  I will 
not  die  in  here  during  the  night.  I am  weary 
and  I am  afraid. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  that  the  sound  of 
human  voice  will  often  give  an  idea  of  the 
size  of  a dark  place.  He  shouted.  His  voice 
went  off  into  a vast,  unbelievable  hollowness, 
echoing  against  untold  distances  of  metal, 
fading  at  last  into  a distant  brazen  clang.  It 
was  then  that  he  felt  the  fear.  He  had  always 
thought  of  himself  as  being  braver  than  the 
average.  But  his  bravery  had  existed  in 
known  situations,  against  known  odds.  Now 
he  faced  the  unknown,  and  he  had  in  his 
heart  the  fear  of  a small  child  left  alone  in 
the  dark. 

He  couldn’t  bring  himself  to  shout  again. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  the  packet  of 
matches.  He  lighted  one.  The  flame  burned 
weakly.  He  held  it  high  and  saw  how  impos- 
sible it  would  be  for  him  to  ever  reach  the 
circular  trap.  He  couldn’t  even  make  out  the 
lines  of  the  joining.  The  walls  shone,  re- 
flecting the  match  light. 

It  burned  his  fingers  and  he  shook  it  out. 
The  second  match  showed  him  that  the  stuff 
on  which  he  stood  was  something  like  a 
plastic  and  something  like  fabric.  It  seemed 
to  be  woven.  There  was  a gap  between  it 
and  the  metal  wall.  He  inserted  his  fingers 
in  the  gap  and  felt  nothing. 

Wishing  to  hoard  his  matches,  and  real- 
izing that  it  would  be  better  to  keep  moving 
than  to  stand  where  he  was,  he  put-  his 
hand  against  the  metal  wall  and  followed  the 
sloping  floor  of  the  passageway. 

The  slope  was  definite.  With  each  step  his 
feet  thudded  heavily.  It  was  when  he  had 
walked  a thousand  steps  that  he  halted.  This 
was  an  absurdity.  He  knew  that  the  flat  top 
of  the  mountain  was  but  two  hundred  yards 
across,  and  he  knew  the  steepness  of  the  rock 
cliff.  It  would  be  impossible  to  go  a thousand 
steps  on  this  incline  without  going  beyond 
the  rock  w’all  of  the  cliff. 

The  third  match  answered  his  problem. 
Above  him,  only  ten  feet  above  his  head,  was 
stuff  similar  to  that  on  which  he  walked.  He 
knew’  then  that  he  was  in  an  enormous  spiral 
which,  inside  the  mountain,  went  around 
and  around,  taking  him  constantly  lower. 
As  he  walked  in  the  blackness,  he  kept  touch- 
ing the  inner  wall.  He  knew  that  each  com- 
plete circle  must  be  taking  him  around  and 


around  some  sort  of  enormous  steel  cylinder. 
No,  not  steel,  something  else.  He  wondered 
if  the  inside  of  the  cylinder  were  hollow.  . 

After  a time  he  grew  less  cautious  about 
walking  forward  into  the  darkness  and  quick- 
ened his  steps.  The  softness  of  the  stuff 
under  his  feet  was  deceptive.  He  fell  once, 
tripping  and  rolling  for  several  feet.  Where 
his  face  touched  the  floor,  the  skin  was 
rubbed  off  as  though  he  had  touched  a file. 

The  longer  he  walked,  the  warmer  the  air 
grew.  He  guessed  that  it  was  well  above 
zero  by  now.  It  seemed  to  have  a very  ac- 
ceptable oxygen  content.  And  the  longer  he 
walked  the  more  impressed  he  grew  with 
the  pure  impossibility  of  such  a project. 

He  remembered  how  every  item  used  in 
the  expedition  had  to  be  carried  on  the  heads 
of  the  bearers  across  countless  weary  miles. 
Yet  here  was  an  undertaking  that  would 
stagger  the  industrial  capabilities  of  a large 
country. 

He  walked  on,  his  legs  beginning  to  shake 
with  weariness.  He  had  no  watch  with  him. 
He  lost  track  of  the  hours.  For  a time  he 
counted  his  steps.  He  counted  until  he  lost 
track  of  the  numbers,  not  knowing  whether 
the  next  number  should  be  eight  thousand  or 
nine  thousand. 

Shaking  with  weariness  he  stopped  and 
stretched  out  on  his  back,  his  head  up  the 
slope,  too  tired  to  think  or  imagine.  He  was 
asleep  in  seconds. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  many  seconds  be- 
fore he  remembered  his  predicament.  Lost 
in  the  bowels  of  a mountain,  traveling  down 
the  gentle  slant  of  a passageway  that  seemed 
to  go  on  forever.  There  was  no  abatement 
in  the  thick  blackness  that  surrounded  him. 
His  mouth  was  dry.  He  knew  that  he  had 
slept  for  a long  time.  He  had  no  way  of 
telling  how  long. 

Around  and  around  he  went,  constantly 
downward.  Idiotically  downward,  perpetual- 
ly downward.  It  grew  wanner.  Finally  he 
threw  his  hood  back  and  it  seemed  hours 
later,  he  took  his  jacket  off  and  carried  it 
folded  across  his  arm.  Hour  followed  in- 
credible hour.  His  mind  reeled  as  he  con- 
templated the  work  that  had  gone  into  the 
construction  of  such  a thing. 

At  last,  as  he  was  growing  intensely  weary, 
he  stopped.  He  could  detect  a faint  light,  so 
faint  as  to  be  almost  unnoticeable.  Could  it 
be  there  was  an  end  to  this  incredible,  in- 
fernal passageway  ? He  began  to  hurry, 
stumbling  in  his  eagerness.  Daylight  loomed 


STARTLING  STORIES 


lOS 

ahead,  maybe  swue  cave  at  the  base  of  the 
mountain. 

As  he  hurried,  the  light  grew  stronger 
and  brighter,  a white  light  that  could  be 
nothing  but  daylight.  It  was  light  enough 
so  that  he  could  see  clearly  the  gradual  and 
constant  curve  of  the  passageway,  the  shin- 
ing metal  walls.  He  took  his  hand  from  the 
wall.  He  could  move  more  quickly. 

RIGHTER  and  brighter  became  the 
radiance.  Ahead  he  saw  something, 
some  change  in  the  corridor.  As  he  came 
down  to  it  he  stopped.  The  corrider  had 
widened  out  into  a high  ceilinged  cubical 
room.  The  resilient  floor  material  stopped. 
The  floor  was  of  metal.  The  light  came  from 
four  shining  discs  set  into  the  wall.  They 
sent  forth  a clear  white  light.  He  touched 
a disc.  It  was  cold  light.  Not  daylight. 

At  the  far  side  of  the  room,  the  downward 
corridor  began  again.  He  walked  to  it.  The 
flexible  floor  covering  seemed  to  curl  back 
on  itself  around  metal  rollers  so  as  to  form 
a continuous  strip.  It  was  then  that  he 
noticed  an  array  of  levers.  They  were  set 
high,  parallel  to  the  floor  and  on  a level  just 
above  his  head.  He  could  see  by  the  slots 
into  which  they  fitted  that  they  could  move 
either  up  or  down 

With  a feeling  of  awe,  he  reached  up, 
grasped  one  and  pulled  it  down.  It  moved 
easily.  An  odd  symbol  was  embossed  on 
the  handle.  The  handle  was  too  big  around 
for  him  to  grasp  easily.  Nothing  happened. 
Nothing  at  all. 

Better  continue  on  down  the  dark  corridor. 
He  walked  toward  it,  then  stopped  in  amaze- 
ment. The  floor  of  the  corridor  was  moving, 
moving  without  noise,  with  just  the  faint 
breeze  of  its  passage. 

He  ran  back  to  the  levers  and,  in  a few 
moments  had  figured  them  out.  The  one 
he  had  not  touched  controlled  the  escalator 
floor  of  the  passage  he  had  just  left.  Pulling 
it  down  caused  it  to  run  silently  down  and, 
had  it  been  turned  on,  it  would  have  brought 
him  without  effort  to  the  square  room. 

The  lever  he  first  touched  controlled  the 
flooring  he  had  been  about  to  step  onto.  The 
further  down  the  lever  was  forced,  the  faster 
it  moved.  At  its  maximum  speed,  it  moved 
with  a faint  whistling  noise,  so  fast  that  he 
knew  he  would  be  unable  to  leap  onto  it 
without  injury. 

He  adjusted  it  to  the  fastest  speed  he  could 
manage,  crouched  and  leaped  onto  it  and 


was  carried  away  into  the  increasing  gloom. 
He  sat,  crosslegged,  grasping  the  haft  of  his 
ice  ax,  and  suddenly  began  to  laugh  like  a 
child  at  a street  carnival. 

The  floor  of  the  corridor  moved  almost 
without  sound  and  the  breeze  of  his  passage 
was  fresh  and  cool  on  his  cheeks. 

“Splendid  service,”  he  said  aloud.  "Thank 
you  very  much,  whoever  you  may  be.” 

After  the  laughter  come  the  fear.  Fear  of 
being  carried  down  into  the  depths  of  the 
dark  earth.  Fear  of  what  he  could  not  see. 
Fear  of  the  mind  of  someone — something — 
capable  of  building  a thing  such  as  this. 

In  time  the  laughter  and  the  fear  were  both 
gone,  and  his  head  nodded.  The  slight  mo- 
tion of  the  moving  corridor  made  him  sleepy. 
He  fought  it  for  a time  and  at  last  the  ax 
slipped  from  his  hand  and  he  was  stretched 
on  his  side,  being  carried  into  the  blackness. 

The  cruel  jar  of  a fall  dazed  him.  He 
awakened  even  as  he  was  still  sliding  along 
the  polished  metal  floor,  the  ice  ax  under 
him,  his  eyes  blinking  in  the  white  light.  It 
was  very  warm.  He  stood  up  quickly.  He 
was  in  a huge  room,  so  terrifyingly  huge 
that  he  knew  at  last  that  he  had  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  corridor. 

Behind  him,  and  three  feet  in  the  air,  the 
end  of  the  corridor  floor  revolved  rapidly  and 
silently  around  the  rollers.  A lever  projected 
from  a cubical  box  beside  it.  He  walked 
over  and  pushed  the  lever.  The  corridor 
floor  slowed  and  stopped. 

He  looked  at  the  vast  room.  He  had  no 
way  of  guessing  its  length.  On  the  nearest 
wall  were  huge  discs  of  light,  similar  to 
the  smaller  ones  he  had  seen.  They  appeared 
to  be  at  least  a yard  across  and  twenty  feet 
apart.  Yet,  in  the  remote  distance  of  the 
big  room,  perspective  made  them  look  like 
a fine  white  continuous  line. 

In  spite  of  the  lights,  the  main  effect  was 
of  shadows  and  dimness.  He  craned  his 
neck,  looking  up.  A ceiling  was  a short  dis- 
tance above  him.  Yet,  after  he  walked  a 
dozen  steps,  the  ceiling  was  gone.  He  looked 
up  into  limitless  bHckness.  He  had  lost  all 
sense  of  direction. 

The  silence  was  what  made  him  fearful. 
It  was  the  silence  of  the  long  dead,  the  silence 
of  the  tomb,  the  dead,  still,  soundlessness  of 
eternity. 

He  stepped  forward  and  the  ice  caulks  in 
his  climbing  boots  clinked  against  the  floor. 
He  shouted  once,  and  for  long  seconds  the 
echoes  answered  him,  diminishing  and  dis- 


SHENADUN 


torting  his  shout  until  at  last  all  was  silent 
again.  He  remembered  nightmares  he  had 
experienced  as  a child.  This  vast  room  had 
a nightmare  quality. 

He  looked  around  and  decided  that  the 
huge  discs  must  lead  somewhere.  Best  to 
follow  them,  rather  than  to  wander  off  across 
the  shadows.  The  clink,  clink  of  the  caulks 
was  the  only  sound  in  the  world. 

After  five  minutes  of  steady  walking,  he 
noticed  a darker  shadow,  thin  and  elongated, 
on  the  floor  parallel  to  the  wall  and  about 
thirty  feet  aw'ay.  He  went  out  to  it.  It 
was  a mammoth  rail,  projecting  a foot  above 
the  floor  level  and  nearly  a foot  wide.  Be- 
yond it,  another  forty  or  so  feet  away,  he  saw 
what  might  be  another.  But  the  room  was 
darker  further  from  the  wall.  And  he  was 
rapidly  learning  to  fear  the  darkness — and 
the  immutable  silence. 

The  lights  stretched  out  ahead,  seemingly 
into  infinity.  Go  wan  Mitchell  walked 

steadily.  The  world  of  high  mountains  was 
far  behind.  He  still  clutched  the  ice  ax, 
thinking  of  it  as  a weapon. 

At  last  he  heard  a sound. ' The  splash- 
ing of  water.  It  was  off  in  the  shadows. 
Carefully  he  walked  toward  it,  his  eyes 
adjusting  to  the  lesser  light.  He  found  that 
the  distant  opposite  wall  had  moved  nearer 
and  the  metal  w’as  replaced  by  jagged  rock, 
damp  and  rough.  A trickle  of  water  fell  into 
a dark  shining  pool.  Thirstily  he  dropped  on 
his  stomach,  scooped  it  up  in  his  hands.  It 
was  cool  and  delicious.  He  drank  deeply, 
went  on  refreshed.  Hunger  was  the  most 
pressing  problem.  Inured  to  hardships,  he 
knew  that  he  could  continue  long  after  the 
average  city-bred  man  would  collapse  from 
weakness. 

In  the  distance,  the  lights  stopped. 
.Abruptly.  Beyond  them — the  darkness.  He 
had  cold  fear  in  his  heart,  wondering  if  he 
was  doomed  to  walk  the  enormous  echoing 
chambers  forever,  dying  at  last  close  to  the 
brink  of  the  cold  pool. 

He  stood  by  the  last  light,  the  last  glowing 
disc  set  flush  with  the  metal  wall.  Ahead 
he  could  barely  make  out  a huge  arched 
doorway,  fully  twenty  feet  high  and  ten  feet 
wide.  He  strained  his  eyes,  but  could  not 
see  beyond  it. 

Tightening  his  grip  on  the  haft  of  the  ice 
ax,  he  walked  through  the  arch.  The  space 
beyond  exploded  into  brilliant  light,  so  shock- 
ing and  so  unexpected  that  his  ax  clattered 


109 

to  the  metal  floor  and  he  covered  his  eyes 
with  the  backs  of  his  hands,  staggering  back, 
nearly  falling. 

When  he  took  his  diands  from  his  eyes 
and  looked  about  him,  he  felt  that  he  had 
gone  mad.  He  stood  in  a room  one  hundred 
feet  long  and  fifty  feet  wide.  The  ceiling 
was  forty  feet  high.  Side  by  side,  in  two 
parallel  rows,  with  a wide  aisle  between 
them,  were  huge,  coffinlike  objects.  To 
steady  his  reeling  brain  he  counted  them. 
Exactly  thirty. 

Up  to  the  level  of  his  eyes,  they  were 
intricate  with  odd  dials,  tubes,  wiring, 
marked  with  symbols  similar  to  those  on  the 
handles  of  the  levers  in  the  small  room  half- 
way to  the  top  of  the  mountain.  Above  eye- 
level  were  the  rounded,  transparent  tops. 

And  inside  the  bulbous  tops  were  stretched 
the  figures  of  men  and  women.  But  they 
were  men  and  women  such  as  he  had  never 
seen  before.  The  fact  that  each  was  lying 
down  made  height  difficult  to  estimate.  It 
seemed  that  they  were  fifteen  feet  tall,  each 
of  them.  Tall  and  blonde  and  dead.  One 
of  the  coffinlike  objects  was  empty,  the 
hinged  transparent  lid  flung  back. 

In  superstitious  fear  he  looked  out  into  the 
darkness.  Was  one  of  these  enormous  crea- 
tures prowling  the  darkness,  startled  out  of 
death  by  his  coming? 

It  was  then  that  he  noticed  the  small  lens 
set  in  the  side  of  the  arch  and  guessed  that 
when  he  had  entered  the  room,  he  had  cut 
some  sort  of  ray  which  had  activated  the 
brilliant  lighting. 

He  listened.  The  vast  place  was  as  sound- 
less as  before.  Growing  bolder,  he  walked 
close  to  the  nearest  coffin,  awed  by  the 
enormous  size  of  the  occupant.  Men  and 
women,  they  were  naked  to  the  waist,  wore 
wide  metal  belts  of  intricate  workmanship. 
From  small  slots  in  each  belt  protruded  the 
handles  of  tools  which  were  unlike  anything 
he  had  ever  seen  before.  To  the  belts  were 
fastened  a sort  of  skirt  of  fine  metal  mesh 
which  came  almost  down  to  the  knees.  The 
men  were  bearded  and,  men  and  women 
alike,  the  tawny  blonde  hair  was  worn  at 
shoulder-length. 

There  was  no  sign  of  pulse  or  breathing. 
He  jumped  back  as  he  saw  the  faint  quiver 
of  a silver  needle  on  one  of  the  dials.  It  was 
a hall  of  the  dead,  with  all  the  garish  bril- 
liance of  a research  laboratory. 

Close  to  his  eyes  was  the  enormous  hand 
of  the  woman  behind  the  transparent  sub- 


STARTLING  STORIES 


110 

stance.  Each  finger  seemed  almost  as  big 
around  as  his  wrist.  He  turned  and  saw, 
on  the  far  wall,  to  the  left  of  the  arch,  a high 
board  covered  with  large  switches,  with  dials 
of  varying  sizes,  with  an  array  of  different 
colored  buttons,  absurdly  large. 

Suddenly  Gowan  Mitchell  laughed.  It  was 
a laugh  close  to  the  dangerous  borderline  of 
insanity.  Of  course ! He  was  freezing  to 
death  on  the  summit  of  Shenadun  and  all 
this  was  the  result  of  his  tortured  imagina- 
tion. These  levers  and  moving  corridors 
and  blonde  giants!  Absurd,  of  course.  He 
told  himself  to  die  calmly,  to  force  these 
images  from  his  mind. 

They  were  false.  They  could  not  exist. 
Giants  under  the  earth?  Nonsense!  Worse. 
Childish  nonsense  ! Fairy  tales ! 

Still  laughing,  he  ran  to  the  huge  board, 
began  to  yank  levers  at  random,  push  but- 
tons. The  needles  spun  madly  on  the  dials. 
Some  of  the  levers  and  switches  were  out  of 
his  reach.  He  moved  them  with  the  point 
of  his  ice  axe. 

He  turned  from  the  board  and  looked  back 
at  the  coffins.  All  of  the  lids,  hinged  like 
the  thirtieth,  had  turned  back.  One  of  the 
men  reached  up  and  clutched  his  throat.  A 
hoarse  gasp  filled  the  room.  Gowan  IMitchell 
cowered  back  in  terror.  The  man  shifted, 
fell  heavily  to  the  metal  floor.  Others  began 
to  stir.  With  slow  and  painful  effort,  the 
blonde  giant  got  to  his  knees,  stood  up  by 
clutching  the  table  he  had  just  vacated.  His 
eyes  were  wild,  and  he  came  toward  the 
panel  at  a slow  stumbling  run. 

Gowan  Mitchell  backed  toward  the  arch, 
ready  to  flee  into  the  darkness,  but  the  giant 
ignored  him.  The  giant  began  to  move  the 
levers  and  switches  that  Gowan  Mitchell 
had  touched.  The  transparent  hoods  closed 
again,  quickly. 

One  reopened  and,  long  minutes  later,  the 
woman  who  occupied  it  sat  up  quietly  and 
calmly.  She  stood  on  the  metal  floor,  walked 
over  and,  after  exchanging  slow  rumbling 
words  with  the  man  at  the  panel,  she  began 
to  help  him.  The  next  one  who  stood  up 
was  a man.  He  also  began  to  help.  Their 
voices  were  very  low,  and  their  language 
was  strange,  reminding  Gowan  Mitchell  of 
the  Hawaiian  tongue. 

Each  one  moved  as  though  very  weak. 

At  last  there  were  twenty-nine  blonde 
giants  in  the  room.  They  seemed  indifferent 
to  Gowan  Mitchell’s  presence.  They  greeted 


each  other  and  Gowan  was  reminded  of 
friends  meeting  after  a long  absence. 

Still  he  tried  to  tell  himself  that  all  of 
this  was  the  product  of  his  dying  mind.  At 
last  he  saw  some  of  them  looking  at  him, 
talking  to  each  other.  They  smiled.  A man 
started  slowly  toward  him.  He  felt  like  a 
child  among  adults.  With  a gasp  of  fear,  he 
turned  to  run  into  the  huge  outer  room. 

He  took  but  one  step,  and  then  every 
muscle  froze.  He  could  not  move.  He  could 
not  change  the  direction  of  his  gaze,  but  was 
forced  to  look  out  into  the  darkness.  An 
enormous  hand  folded  around  his  arm.  It 
was  then  that  he  fainted.  . . . 

He  was  conscious  of  a low  humming,  a 
monotonous  noise  that  was  not  unpleasant. 
He  tried  to  turn  his  head,  but  it  was  rigidly 
fixed  in  one  position.  He  tentatively  moved 
one  arm,  the  other.  He  opened  his  eyes. 

Above  him,  enormous  and  unbelievable, 
was  the  face  of  one  of  the  blonde  women. 
He  seemed  to  be  on  some  sort  of  a table. 
She  looked  down  at  him  and  her  lips  curled 
in  a smile  and  she  said,  in  a rich  contralto: 
“Do  not  be  afraid!” 

“Where  am  I?”  he  asked. 

“Our  ears  are  accustomed  to  different 
sound  cycles,  Mitchell.  I am  speaking 
abnormally  quickly  and  at  a higher  than 
usual  pitch.  You  must  speak  in  as  deep  tones 
as  you  can,  and  slowly.  Later  we  will  devise 
something  to  cure  this  difference  between 
us.  I believe  you  asked  where  you  are. 
Wait  until  I free  you  and  you  can  look 
around.” 

Her  big  hands  touched  something  beside 
his  head  and  the  pressure  began  to  lessen. 
Remembering  her  instructions,  he  asked, 
“How  did  you  learn  to  speak  my  language?” 
She  smiled  again.  “From  you,  Mitchell. 
While  you  were  sleeping.  We  know  every- 
thing about  you  and  your  world.  It  has 
been  very  interesting.  You  have  made  much 
progress.  We  are  grateful.  All  of  us.” 

His  head  was  free.  He  sat  up  with  her 
help.  He  looked  down  and  saw  that  his 
head  had  been  fastened  into  an  odd  looking 
chamber,  like  a huge  bowl  with  a slot  to 
admit  his  neck.  Coils  of  wire  rimmed  the 
edge.  She  saw  the  direction  of  his  glance. 
“With  that  we  learned  everything  from  you. 
It  has  all  been  recorded.” 

“How?” 

“Mitchell,  you  are  not  a man  of  science. 
We  can  only  use  the  words  which  we  found 
in  your  brain.  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  ex- 


SHENADUN  11* 


plain  with  the  few  scientific  words  you 
possess.” 

“Have  I been  unconscious  long?” 

“Three  of  your  days  and  nights.  Come, 
we  will  go  to  Garra.  He  is  the  commander. 
He  wishes  to  thank  you  and  to  explain.” 

The  floor  was  a good  ten  feet  below  the 
level  of  the  bench.  She  saw  his  difficulty, 
put  her  huge  hands  around  his  upper  arms 
and  lifted  him  easily  down.  Her  laugh  beat 
against  his  ears  like  thunder.  “You  are  like 
one  of  our  children.” 

A few  of  the  giants  were  gathered  in  the 
room  in  which  he  had  first  found  them.  He 
gasped  as  he  saw  the  enormous  outer  room. 
It  was  now  brilliantly  lighted.  It  w'as  a full 
mile  long,  at  the  minimum. 

One  of  these  people  looked  older  than  the 
others.  He  saw  Gowan  Mitchell,  lifted  one 
of  the  small  tools  from  his  belt  and  spoke 
into  it.  In  a few  seconds  more  of  the  blonde 
giants  entered.  Gowan  Mitchell  felt  lost 
among  the  vista  of  huge  muscled  kgs.  The 
woman  save  his  difficulty,  picked  him  up  and 
stood  him  on  one  of  the  tables  where  they 
had  slept.  The  faces  of  these  huge  beings 
were  still  a good  four  feet  above  Mitchell, 
but  he  felt  more  comfortable.  In  a voice 
much  lower  and  slower  than  the  voice  of 
the  woman,  the  giant  known  as  Garra  said: 

“Mitchell,  we  owe  much  to  you.  You 
must  understand.  We  are  of  the  race  of 
Farau  from  the  planet  Jorla.  In  deep  space 
three  thousand  years  ago  our  spaceship  drive 
failed,  and  we  made  an  emergency  landing 
here  on  Earth.  By  the  time  repairs  were 
effected,  we  found  that  our  planet  was  at 
its  maximum  distance  from  Earth  and  we 
could  not  risk  a trip.  One  thousand  of  your 
years  had  to  pass  before  we  could  attempt 
it.  We  could  not  communicate  with  Jorla 
to  tell  of  our  distress.  Our  average  life  sp>an 
is  two  hundred  years.  Our  solution  was  to 
construct  this  place  and  induce  artificial  sleep 
of  a sort  which  does  not  detract  from  the 
life  span.  Ten  of  us  were  selected  by  lot  to 
serve  as  attendants  to  the  others  for  periods 
of  one  hundred  years  each.  At  the  end  of 
one  thousand  years,  Jorla  would  be  close 
enough  to  attempt  a return  with  our  crippled 
ship. 

“All  went  w'ell  until,  by  bad  fortime,  the 
third  attendant  grew  careless  and  wEis  killed 
by  falling  rock  while  constructing  a sub- 
sidiary corridor.  We  have  found  his  bones. 
They  have  turned  to  dust.  Thus  at  the  end 
of  a thousand  years,  Jorla  was  near,  but  we 


slept  on.  At  the  end  of  the  second  thousand 
years  it  was  once  again  too  distant.  Three 
thousand  years  have  passed.  It  is  now  close 
enough  for  us  again  to  attempt  a return. 
But  for  you,  we  would  have  slept  on  for 
many  more  thousands  of  years,  perhaps  for- 
ever. Even  so,  you  nearly  killed  all  of  us 
with  your  handling  of  the  controls.  How 
did  you  find  us  ?” 

The  famous  mountain  climber  took 
a deep  breath  before  answering. 

“I — I was  trapped  on  top  of  the  mountain. 
I dug  dowm  through  the  ice  and  found  metal 
— a small  round  trap  door.  I pried  it  open. 
It  shut  behind  me  when  I fell  through.” 
“We  already  know  that,  of  course,  Mitch- 
ell. I wished  to  hear  you  say  it.” 

“I  do  not  understand  the  source  of  power. 
Everything  is  in  working  order.” 

“Here  we  are  nearly  a mile  below  your 
sea  level,  Mitchell.  It  is  six  of  your  miles  to 
the  summit  of  the  mountain.  The  internal 
heat  of  the  earth  provides  our  power.” 
“How  could  you  make  anything  as  vast 
as  this  in  so  short  a time?” 

“You  do  not  have  the  science  to  under- 
stand. In  your  terms,  we  used  atomic  power 
to  melt  away  the  solid  rock,  forming  walls 
of  vitrified  rock  at  a temperature  which 
gives  it  much  the  same  specifications  as  a 
metal.” 

“But  why  are  you  buried  in  a mountain?” 
“We  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed,  and 
the  mountain,  the  hollow  shaft  up  through 
the  heart  of  the  mountain,  will  aid  our  de- 
parture. When  we  first  landed,  we  explored 
your  world.  They  are  a primitive  people  and 
superstitious.  But  you  have  advanced  far 
while  we  slept.” 

Mitchell  said : “There  are  legends — giants 
in  the  olden  times.  Blonde  giants  who 
walked  the  earth.” 

“I  imagine  those  legends  are  based  on 
our  explorations.  Your  world  is  not  pleasant 
for  us.  Jorla  is  smaller.  Here  we  are  slow, 
weak  and  awkward.  We  had  expected  to 
find  creatures  here  much  larger  than  our- 
selves.” 

“Why  does  the  moving  corridor  go  to 
the  top  of  the  mountain?” 

“That  is  our  place  of  observation  and 
astronomkal  computation,”  Garra  said.  “We 
have  been  to  the  summit.  Conditions  are 
proper  for  a return.  Our  calculations  are 
complete.  We  will  leave  in  seven  of  your 
hours.” 


112  STARTLING  STORIES 


Go  wan  Mitchell  looked  around  at  the  grave 
faces.  They  watched  him  silently.  Garra 
spoke  again. 

“While  searching  your  mind,  we  con- 
sidered how  best  we  could  reward  you  for 
the  service  you  have  done  us.  It  is  within 
our  power  to  return  you  to  your  world 
with  great  riches.  But  we  know  what  will 
happen  should  we  do  that.” 

The  gift  of  life ! Gowan  Mitchell’s  pulse 
thudded  and  his  mouth  grew  dry.  He 
frowned  at  the  tone  of  Garra’s  words. 
“What  will  happen?”  he  asked. 

“We  know  your  mind  well,  Mitchell.  We 
know  w^hat  motivates  you.  For  the  rest  of 
your  life  you  would  look  at  the  sky  at  night 
and  curse  yourself  for  having  partaken  of 
every  splendid  adventure  but  the  last  one — 
the  ultimate  one — the  greatest  adventure  any 
man  of  your  race  has  ever  had.” 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

“We  mean  that  the  greatest  thing  we  can 
do  for  you  is  to  take  you  with  us  to  the 
shining  cities  of  Jorla  across  the  wilderness 
of  deepest  space.” 

Gowan  Mitchell  felt  the  stir  of  his  blood, 
a prickle  of  excitement  along  his  spine. 

In  a hoarse  voice,  with  a smile  on  his  lips, 
he  said,  “Are  there  mountains  on  Jorla?” 
“Mountains  that  rise  eighty  thousand  feet 
from  the  level  of  our  seas.” 

After  it  had  been  carefully  explained  to 
him,  he  learned  the  purpose  of  the  huge 
rails  he  had  seen.  On  them,  sleek  and 
majestic  in  its  thousand  feet  of  shining 
beauty,  the  incredible  weight  of  a gigantic 
spaceship  had  been  rolled  to  a takeoff 
position.  In  anticipation  of  his  acceptance, 
a special  compartment  had  been  prepared 
for  him,  equipped  to  counteract  the  enormous 
shock  of  takeoff  on  his  body. 

They  had  explained  to  him  how  the  nose 
of  the  ship  fitted  into  the  shining  tube,  the 
tube  that  extended  straight  up  through  the 
heart  of  Shenadun.  With  the  initial  blast 
of  the  atomic  drive,  the  heat  would  liquefy 
all  the  apparatus  left  behind.  The  enormous 
pressure,  confined  by  the  flanks  of  the  mighty 
mountain,  would  project  the  ship  up  the 
tube  like  a shell  out  of  a gun,  a gun  pointed 
toward  Jorla,  untold  millions  of  miles  away. 
The  compression  of  air  in  front  of  the  ship 
would  blow  out  the  plug  of  metal  and  ice  at 
the  summit. 

The  woman  who  had  taken  him  first  to 
Garra,  carried  him  up  the  ladder  to  the  plat- 
form and  from  there  through  the  door  cut 


into  the  side  of  the  ship.  She  took  him  to 
his  compartment,  helped  him  fasten  the 
straps,  and  closed  the  door  after  him.  Six 
minutes  to  wait.  Gowan  Mitchell  waited, 
his  fingernails  cutting  into  the  palms  of  his 
hands,  and  his  heart  joyous.  . . . 

The  following  morning  a radio  announcer 
was  speaking  into  a microphone.  He  was 
saying : 

“Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the  radio 
audience.  This  is  Clinton  Hoffman  coming 
to  you  again  through  the  courtesy  of  Sticki- 
feed,  the  food  that  keeps  your  baby  healthy. 
I now  bring  you  a summary  and  analysis 
of  the  day’s  news. 

“Last  night  there  was  a good  deal  of  ex- 
citement in  official  circles,  about  the  odd 
rocket  that  went  up  from  somewhere  in 
Asia.  You  remember  that  the  common  con- 
census of  opinion  was  that  the  Russians 
were  experimenting  in  Siberia  with  their 
version  of  the  V-Two.  The  rocket  itself  was 
observed  from  Calcutta,  Delhi,  and  the  costal 
cities  of  China.  This  goes  to  show  you  how 
millions  of  people  can  be  wrong. 

“Half  an  hour  ago,  your  correspondent 
was  talking  by  transoceanic  telephone  with 
Doctor  Wallace  Wington,  a member  of  the 
Mitchell  Expedition  to  Mount  Shenadun  in 
the  Himalayas.  Both  Gowan  Mitchell  and 
Joseph  Carmon  were  lost  in  the  last  assault 
on  the  summit.  The  other  members  of  the 
expedition  are  hunting  for  their  bodies.  Dr. 
Wington  flew  out  to  Calcutta  with  an  eye- 
witness report  of  the  so-called  rocket. 

“Dr.  Wington  told  me  that  there  was 
an  enormous  rumble  from  the  depths  of 
Shenadun  and  the  earth  shook.  A spear  of 
flame  shot  miles  into  the  air.  At  the  end  of 
it  some  sort  of  a blazing  ball  was  shot  up 
toward  the  stratosphere. 

“In  the  morning  Dr.  Wington  examined 
the  summit  vnth  powerful  glasses  and  he  has 
seen  a newly  created  crater  up  there.  Thus 
the  official  apprehension  concerning  a super- 
powered  rocket  is  false.  Dr.  Wington  ex- 
plained that  Shenadun,  probably  a long- 
silent  volcano,  built  up  enough  pressure  to 
erupt,  The^  matter  thrown  toward  the  sky 
doubtless  fell  in  some  remote  portion  of  the 
Himalayas. 

“So  friends,  you  can  call  it  sort  of  a 
volcanic  burp,  hardly  worth  all  the  thousands 
of  words  that  have  so  far  been  devoted  to  it. 

“Today  in  the  House  of  Representatives, 
a bill  was  introduced  which  makes  it  possible 
for  . . . 


As  the  balls  settled  in  their  places,  the  operator  called  out  the  winning  numbers 

SANATOmS  SHORT-CUT 

Ey  JACK  VAISCE 


Mathematics  is  the  weapon 
of  Magnus  Ridolph  when  he 
combats  a pirate  of  space! 


Gambling,  in  the  ultimate  study,  stems  from  the 
passive,  the  submissive,  the  irresponsible  in  human 
nature ; the  gambler  is  one  of  an  inferior  lickspittle 
breed  who  turns  himself  belly-upward  to  the  capri- 
cious deeds  of  Luck.  Examine  now  the  man  of 
strength  and  action ; he  is  never  led  by  destiny.  He 
drives  on  a decided  course,  manipulates  the  vari- 


ables, and  instead  of  submitting  to  the  ordained 
shape  of  his  life,  creates  a pattern  to  his  own  de- 
sign. 

— Magnus  Ridolph. 

Magnus  ridolph  often  found 

himself  in  want  for  money,  for  his 
expenditures  were  large  and  he 
had  no  regular  income.  With  neither  natural 
diligence  nor  any  liking  for  routine,  he  was 
forced  to  cope  with  each  ebb  of  his  credit 
balance  as  it  occurred,  a fact  which  suited 


STARTLING  STORIES 


114 

him  perfectly.  In  his  brain  an  exact  logical 
mechanism  worked  side  by  side  with  a pro- 
jective faculty  ranging  the  infinities  of  time 
and  space,  and  this  natural  endowment  he 
used  not  only  to  translate  fact  from  and  into 
mathematics,  but  also  to  maintain  his  finan- 
cial solvency. 

In  the  course  of  the  years  he  had  devised 
a number  of  money-making  techniques.  The 
first  of  these  was  profoundly  simple.  Sur- 
veying the  world  about  him,  he  would  pres- 
ently observe  a lack  or  an  imperfection.  A 
moment’s  thought  would  suggeset  an  im- 
provement, and  in  repairing  the  universe, 
Magnus  Ridolph  usually  repaired  his  credit 
balance. 

At  other  times  he  accepted  private  com- 
missions, occasionally  acting  as  an  unofficial 
agent  of  the  T.C.I.,  where  his  white  hair, 
his  trimmed  white  beard,  his  calm  imper- 
sonal gaze  and  mild  aspect  were  valuable 
assets. 

He  often  visited  one  of  the  gambling  re- 
sorts scattered  here  and  there  among  the 
worlds  of  the  Commonwealth,  mingling 
unobtrusively  with  the  crowds  who  came 
rich  and  left  poor.  His  purpose  was  by  no 
means  to  test  his  luck;  his  visits  indeed 
were  as  unemotional  as  the  calls  of  the  tax- 
collector.  Still  it  cannot  be  denied  he  found 
a certain  saturnine  satisfaction  mulcting 
the  latter-day  gangsters  in  a fashion  to  which 
they  could  take  no  possible  exception. 

Fan,  the  Pleasure-Planet,  was  a world 
slightly  outside  the  established  edge  of  the 
Commonwealth,  but  not  so  far  that  the 
Terrestrial  Corps  of  Intelligence  lacked  au- 
thority ; and  it  was  to  Fan  that  Magnus 
Ridolph  came  after  a program  of  research 
in  connection  with  telepathy  had  exhausted 
his  funds.  Mylitta,  chief  city  and  space-port, 
occupied  the  tip  of  a fertile  peninsula  in  the 
warm  region  of  the  planet,  and  here  was  the 
Hall  of  Doubtful  Destiny,  operated  by  Acco 
May,  together  with  the  lesser  casinos,  bor- 
dellos, taverns,  restaurants,  theaters,  arcades, 
and  hotels. 

The  third  day  after  his  arrival  Magnus 
Ridolph  strolled  into  the  Hall  of  Doubt- 
ful Destiny  carrying  a small  case.  Through 
tremendous  glass  doors  he  entered  the  lobby, 
a large  quiet  room  with  walls  decorated  rvau 
kerna  style,  in  the  typical  brown  and  blue 
leaf-patterns  of  the  aboriginal  tribes.  Di- 
rectly ahead,  through  a colonnade  of  green 
jasper  pillars  he  glimpsed  the  hundred-foot 


track  where  midget  ponies  raced.  To  right 
and  left  were  the  various  other  games  of 
skill,  chance  and  direction. 

Magnus  Ridolph  ignored  the  race-track, 
turned  into  the  hall  where  card-games  were 
in  progress — poker,  planetta,  black-jack, 
botch,  rhumbo.  He  watched  a poker  game  a 
moment,  but  passed  on.  Winning  money  at 
poker  was  a long-range  affair,  requiring 
patience  and  careful  attention  to  statistics. 

Chuck-a-luck  he  passed  with  a sardonic 
glance,  and  also  the  crap  tables,  and  entered 
a wing  where  a dozen  roulette  wheels  clicked 
and  glittered.  Red  and  black,  mused  Magnus 
Ridolph,  red  and  black  on  green  felt,  tradi- 
tional effects  of  gambling  since  the  eight- 
eenth century. 

He  turned  his  eyes  around  the  room,  en- 
joying the  thousand  various  hues  and  tones. 
He  looked  up  to  the  ceiling,  ground-glass 
glowing  in  the  patterns  projected  by  a mon- 
ster kaleidoscope,  wonderfully  intricate, 
ever-changing — plasma-yellow,  blues,  bottle- 
greens,  ardent  red ; blazing  orange  rosettes, 
shimmering  waves  of  violet-blue,  dart- 
pointed  stars,  bursting  and  fading,  merging 
into  expanding  circles,  bars  and  bands. 

In  contrast,  the  carpet  was  a dull  dark 
gray,  without  shadow,  and  across  walked 
ricbly-clad  men  and  women  in  gorgeous 
tunics,  jackets  of  pigeon-blood,  the  blue- 
green  of  moderate  ocean  depth,  black.  Along 
the  far  wall  ran  three  tiers  of  balconies,  and 
here  small  parties  ate,  drank,  watched  the 
play  below. 

Magnus  Ridolph  surveyed  the  vast  hall 
from  end  to  end,  speculated  on  the  profits 
yielded  by  the  multifarious  tables.  They 
must  be  enormous,  he  mused,  looking  down 
the  ranks  of  flushed,  nervous  faces,  alter- 
nately elated  and  dejected.  And  all  fun- 
neled  into  the  pocket  of  Acco  May.  Acco 
May  was  a man  feared  everywhere  in  the 
Commonwealth,  a man  linked  in  the  public 
imagination  to  a thousand  crimes.  And  yet, 
whatever  form  Acco  May’s  raids  took,  he  was 
never  within  reach  when  the  accounting 
came,  and  no  positive  proof  existed  to  in- 
criminate him. 

Magnus  Ridolph  brought  himself  back  to 
the  matter  at  hand.  He  carefully  inspected 
one  of  the  roulette  wheels,  timed  the  spin 
of  the  wheel,  estimated  the  mass  and  radial 
throw  of  the  ball,  undertook  a few  mental 
calculations,  turned  away.  The  margin  of 
error  was  such  that  he  might  as  well  gamble 
outright. 


SANATORIS 

He  retraced  his  steps  past  the  race-track, 
catching  as  he  passed,  the  flash  of  tiny  dark- 
brown  forms,  and  entered  the  other  wing. 
He  passed  more  roulette  tables,  a device  of 
meshing  whirling  disks,  and  paused  beside 
a large  globe  full  of  liquid  and  swimming 
balls  of  various  colors- — a game  known  in 
the  hall  as  Lorango. 

As  he  watched,  the  balls  slowed,  floated 
jostling  up  to  the  top  of  the  globe,  where 
they  formed  a pyramid,  one  ball  at  the  apex, 
three  immediately  below,  then  seven,  and 
finally  a layer  of  thirteen,  all  glowing  like 
jewels  in  a shaft  of  light  from  beneath. 

The  device  was  operated  by  a young  man 
with  seal-smooth  blond  hair  and  narrow 
brown  eyes,  dressed  in  the  green  and  white 
uniform  of  the  hall.  The  balls  having  settled 
into  their  places,  he  called  the  winning  colors. 

“Silver  wins;  vermilion,  sapphire  and 
flame,  under;  gold,  royal,  topaz,  zebra,  opal, 
emerald  and  jet,  third.” 

Magnus  RIDOLPH  stepped  closer. 

A ball  selected  correctly  for  top  place, 
he  noted,  paid  24  to  one ; in  the  second  layer, 
eight  to  one;  in  the  third  layer,  three  to 
one.  Even  money,  he  thought,  except  for 
the  odds  in  the  third  layer,  which  slightly 
favored  the  house.  Then  he  noticed  a small 
sign: 

When  white  ball  wins,  house  collects  all  bets,  ex- 
cept those  bets  placed  on  white. 

“Make  your  bets,”  called  the  blond  oper- 
ator. He  pressed  a button,  the  globe  spun. 
“No  more  bets.”  The  globe  stopped  short,, 
the  balls  spun  on,  finally  sought  their  places. 
The  operator  called  the.  results. 

“Indigo  wins;  jet,  fawn,  ruby,  under; 
harlequin,  diorite,  aqua,  ivory,  amethyst, 
teal  and  olivine,  third.” 

Chips  changed  hands. 

“Make  your  bets,”  called  the  operator. 
Magnus  Ridolph  unobtrusively  pulled  a stop- 
watch from  his  pocket. 

“No  more  bets.”  The  globe  spun,  reached 
its  maximum  speed,  halted.  The  balls 
whirled  on.  Magnus  Ridolph  looked  at  the 
stop-watch.  10 :23  seconds.  The  balls  settled 
into  place.  He  checked  his  watch  again. 
32.01  seconds. 

“White  at  top,”  called  the  operator. 
“House  takes  all  bets.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  timed  the  globe  several 
times  more,  noted  the  results  in  a small 
black  book. 

Next  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  globe. 


SHORT-CUT  115 

From  his  case  to  took  a camera,  and  filmed 
the  entire  sequence  three  times. 

He  replaced  the  camera,  considering  what 
other  information  he  needed.  The  liquid 
evidently  was  water.  From  the  photographs 
he  could  calculate  the  speed  of  rise  of  the 
balls  and  consequently  their  specific  gravity. 
The  photographs  would  likewise  disclose  the 
dimensions  of  the  balls  and  the  globe,  and 
the  equation  of  curvature  of  the  globe. 

Several  quantities  yet  remained  unknown 
— ^the  coefficient  of  skin  friction  of  the  balls 
and  the  globe  in  water,  their  mutual  elastic- 
ity, the  rate  of  revolution  of  the  globe,  the 
equation  of  its  acceleration.  He  must  also 
correct  for  the  centrifugal  force  of  the  plan- 
et’s rotation,  the  variations  caused  by  the 
motion  of  the  sun  across  the  sky,  the  change 
in  temperature  of  the  water  due  to  agitation. 
He  must  also  investigate  the  possibility  of 
any  strong  or  unusual  electrical,  gravitational 
or  magnetic  fields.  He  opened  his  case, 
glanced  at  the  dials  of  an  instrument  within, 
moved  around  the  globe,  watching  the  action 
of  the  needles.  He  snapped  the  case  shut, 
approached  the  attendant. 

“What  is  the  composition  of  the  balls?” 
he  asked. 

The  operator  looked  down  at  the  old  man 
under  arched  eyebrows.  “Vitrine,  sir.” 

“And  the  globe?” 

“Also  vitrine,  sir.”  The  operator  looked 
away.  “Place  your  bets,  please.” 

It  was  unlikely,  reflected  Magnus  Ridolph, 
that  the  operator  would  know  the  precise 
rate  of  revolution  of  the  globe.  He  looked 
for  power  leads,  then  turned  away,  realizing 
that  he  had  no  means  to  determine  the  effi- 
ciency of  the  motor.  Direct  measurement 
would  be  necessary. 

He  strolled  from  the  hall,  entered  a drug 
store. 

“A  gram  of  fluorescin,  please,”  he  told 
the  clerk.  “Also  fifty  meters  of  Pan-Ang 
film,  two  millimeters.” 

He  returned  to  the  hall  with  his  purchases, 
touched  a pinch  of  the  powder  to  the  globe, 
and  with  his  camera  he  filmed  three  more 
cycles.  Then  he  checked  once  more  the  pe- 
riod that  the  globe  was  in  rotation.  No 
change — 10.23  seconds  till  the  globe  stopped, 
and  32.01  seconds  until  the  balls  settled  into 
their  places. 

Magnus  Ridolph  left  the  Hall  of  Doubtful 
Destiny,  wandered  down  tree-shaded  Moka- 
lemaaka  Way  to  his  hotel. 

The  next  day  his  calculations,  facilitated 


STARTLING  STORIES 


116 

by  a small  integrating  machine  and  differ- 
ential analyzer,  were  complete,  with  a margin 
of  error  that  was  sufficiently  narrow  to  please 
him. 

He  returned  to  the  Hall  of  Doubtful  Des- 
tiny, and  now  bought  ten  hundred-munit 
chips  at  the  cashier’s  wicket.  He  turned  to 
the  left,  toward  the  twenty-four  Lorango 
balls  dancing  and  bouncing,  swirling  and 
wheeling  apparently  at  haphazard,  but  actu- 
ally in  courses  ruled  by  laws  as  exact  as 
those  determining  their  surface  area. 

Those  laws  Rudolph  Ridolph  had  re- 
duced to  concrete  terms,  computing  the 
probability  of  the  ball  in  each  of  the  twenty- 
four  positions  winning  on  the  succeeding 
play. 

The  percentage  total  of  the  four  highest 
probabilities  was  62.  In  other  words,  Mag- 
nus Ridolph,  inspecting  the  pyramid  and 
playing  the  balls  he  found  in  the  four  posi- 
tions of  highest  probability  had  a 62  percent 
chance  of  winning  24  to  one  or,  in  the  long 
run,  of  multiplying  his  monej*  26  to  one  at 
every  play. 

Before  he  bet  he  checked  o«ce  more  the 
period  of  the  cycle;  then,  satisfied,  he  put 
a chip  apiece  on  the  colors  ivory,  teal,  dia- 
mond and  indigo  to  win.  The  globe  whirled, 
the  balls  surged,  plunged  through  the  limpid 
flux. 

“Ivory  wins,”  called  the  blond  operator. 
“Indigo,  vermilion,  jet,  under;  silver,  lime, 
fawn,  diorite,  topaz,  zebra  and  opal  third.” 
Magnus  Ridolph  took  possession  of  his 
winnings  and  the  chip  he  had  bet  on  ivory — 
a net  gain  of  2,100  munits.  Glancing  at  the 
globe,  he  bet  three  chips  apiece  on  ruby, 
white,  amethyst,  and  olivine  to  win. 

The  globe  whirled. 

“White  wins — all  bets  to  the  house,  except 
those  on  white.” 

With  94  chips  stacked  in  front  of  him, 
Magnus  Ridolph  bet  ten  chips  each  on  jet, 
aqua,  diorite,  emerald  and  gold,  adding  the 
fifth  most  favored  position  which  slightly 
increased  the  odds  in  his  favor  and  would 
confuse  any  attempted  analysis  of  his  play. 

He  lost,  and  immediately  bet  ten  chips 
apiece  on  fawn,  jet,  royal  and  ruby. 

“Jet  wins,”  called  the  operator. 

Magnus  Ridolph  calmly  stacked  his  chips, 
254  in  all.  Ignoring  the  onlookers  gathering 
at  his  shoulder,  the  old  man  bet  fifty  chips 
each  on  sapphire,  lime,  topaz,  and  vermilion. 
The  globe  whirled.  The  operator  watched 


the  results,  silently  grimaced,  glanced  at 
Magnus  Ridolph. 

“Sapphire  wins.” 

The  house  paid  off  with  thousand-munit 
chips.  Magnus  Ridolph  signaled  for  the 
cashier’s  cart,  changed  his  winnings  for  ten 
thousand-munit  tokens.  His  stack  now  in- 
cluded 13  tokens  and  four  hundred-munit 
chips.  For  a change  of  pace  he  played  his 
four  hundred-munit  chips  on  balls  of  low 
probability  and  lost.  Then  he  bet  a ten  thou- 
sand-munit token  on  each  of  the  colors  em- 
erald, olivine,  fawn  and  silver.  The  operator 
hesitated,  set  the  globe  in  motion. 

He  smiled  faintly.  “Ruby  wins.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  played  ten-thousand- 
munit  tokens  on  vermilion,  opal,  harlequin 
and  gold. 

The  globe  whirled,  the  balls  wheeled,  jew- 
eled motes  through  the  lambent  fluid. 

“Opal  wins !” 

The  crowd  behind  sighed. 

There  were  now  an  even  300,000  munits 
in  front  of  Magnus  Ridolph,  and  the  operator 
was  watching  him  through  eyes  slitted  like 
a cat’s. 

Magnus  Ridolph  bet  five  tokens  apiece 
on  lime,  diorite,  flame  and  silver. 

The  operator  shook  his  head.  “I’m  afraid 
I’ll  have  to  limit  your  bet,  sir.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  eyed  him  coolly.  “I  un- 
derstood that  there  were  no  limits  to  the 
play  in  the  hall.” 

The  blond  operator  licked  his  lips.  “Well, 
sir,  that’s  true  in  most  cases,  but — ” 
“Please  call  the  manager.” 

The  operator  turned  away  from  Magnus 
Ridolph’s  stare.  “He’s  not  available  at  the 
moment,  sir.  In  fact  he’s  not  on  the  planet, 
he’s  been  away  on  a business  trip.” 

“Who  is  in  charge  then?” 

The  operator,  glancing  over  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph’s head,  caught  sight  of  a man  strid- 
ing purposefully  toward  a door  in  the  wall. 

“There’s  Mr.  May!  He  must  have  just 
returned!  Mr.  May!” 

Acco  May  paused  and  turned  his  pale  tri- 
angular face  to  the  operator.  May  was  a slen- 
der man  of  medium  height,  handsome  in  a 
tense  metallic  manner,  though  his  mouth  had 
a peculiar  droop.  His  eyebrows  rose  in 
saturnine  loops  and  his  ears  were  very  small, 
very  close  to  his  dark  head. 

“Yes,  Jorge?  What’s  the  trouble?” 
“This  gentleman  has  been  winning  regu- 
larly. I’m  afraid  he’s  thrown  a gimmick 
into  the  system.” 


SANATORIS  SHORT-CUT 


117 


ACCO  MAY  turned  to  Magnus  Ridolph, 
looked  him  up  and  down.  The  quietly- 
garbed  elderly  man  with  white  hair  and 
short  beard  seemed  eminently  respectable. 

“Nonsense,”  said  Acco  May.  “Lorango 
is  gimmick-proof.  Non-magnetic,  non-every- 
thing.  No  limit.  Let  him  play.”  But  he 
paused,  watched  as  Magnus  Ridolph  re- 
placed his  chips  on  lime,  diorite,  flame  and 
silver,  and  he  raised  his  eyebrows  at  the 
stakes,  50,000  munits  per  ball. 

The  globe  whirled,  the  balls  swung,  slowed, 
shouldered,  stopped. 

“Lime  wins!” 

There  was  a pause  while  the  house  counted 
out  the  winnings,  a great  sigh  as  the  tokens 
changed  hands,  1,200,000  munits. 

Acco  Alay  mounted  the  operator’s  pedestal, 
scrutinized  the  globe,  narrowly  eyed  Magnus 
Ridolph. 

“Make  your  bets,”  he  said  in  a sharp 
voice. 

Magnus  Ridolph  glanced  at  the  globe,  bet 
twenty  tokens  apiece  on  amethyst,  zebra, 
white  and  fawn. 

The  globe  whirled,  the  balls  stopped. 
“Ruby  wins!” 

Acco  May’s  drooping  mouth  twisted  into 
a derisive  smile. 

“Make  your  bets.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  bet  ten  tokens  apiece  on 
emerald,  vermilion,  harlequin,  and  aqua. 
“Vermilion  wins!” 

Acco  May  bit  his  lip.  The  operator  whis- 
pered in  his  ear. 

“Call  the  cashier’s  desk,”  said  May. 
After  a moment  a messenger  returned 
breathless,  handed  May  a small  black  leather 
bag.  May  counted  out  24  packets  of  Com- 
monwealth notes. 

“There  you  are,  my  friend.  Quite  a kill- 
ing.” Head  slightly  lowered,  he  turned  a 
dark  gaze  on  Magnus  Ridolph. 

Magnus  Ridolph  appeared  to  hesitate, 
fumbled  with  the  chips  in  front  of  him. 
“Are  you  going  to  play?” 

Magnus  Ridolph  bet  four  ten-thousand- 
munit  tokens  on  balls  of  little  probability 
and  lost.  He  did  so  again,  and  lost  again. 
Acco  May’s  shoulders  relaxed  slightly. 

Magnus  Ridolph,  glancing  at  the  globe, 
blandly  counted  out  500,000  munits  each  on 
diamond,  jet,  teal  and  zebra.  Acco  May 
leaned  forward,  looked,  turned,  inspected 
the  globe,  turned  back  to  Magnus  Ridolph, 
straightened,  suddenly  turned,  pushed  the 
button. 


A hundred  people  watched  the  balls  in 
utter  absorption.  The  globe  slowed,  stopped. 
The  balls  circled,  slowed.  Jet  rode  on  top. 

“Twelve  million  munits,”  said  Acco  May 
between  clenched  teeth.  He  turned  to  the 
blond  operator.  “Close  the  machine.  Get 
McNutt,  tell  him  to  look  it  over.”  He  turned 
slowly  to  Magnus  Ridolph.  “Will  you  come 
to  my  office?  I haven’t  that  much  cash  on 
hand.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  stared  calmly  into  the 
set  triangle-face. 

“Just  write  me  a check,  if  you  please.  I’ll 
wait  here.” 

Acco  May  turned  on  his  heel.  Ten  minutes 
passed,  and  the  crowd  around  the  Lorango 
layout  dissipated.  Acco  May  returned.  He 
handed  a check  to  Magnus  Ridolph. 

“I’ll  have  to  ask  you  not  to  cash  this 
for  three  days.  My  balance  is  two  or  three 
million  short.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  nodded  graciously.  “Cer- 
tainly, I’ll  be  glad  to  oblige.” 

Acco  May  burnt  him  with  a glance.  Then 
bending  his  head  closer  he  muttered : “What’s 
the  pitch,  brother?  How’d  you  beat  that 
game?” 

Magnus  Ridolph’s  lips  twitched.  “Mathe- 
matics,” he  said. 

“Nonsense,”  spat  Acco  May,  suddenly, 
like  a black  cat. 

Magnus  Ridolph  shrugged.  “Every  inci- 
dent in  the  universe  can  be  expressed  in 
mathematical  terms.  Why  do  you  imagine 
that  so  simple  a device  as  your  globe  has 
escaped  the  contagion?” 

Acco  May’s  mouth  drooped  lower  than 
ever.  “I’m  no  mathematician,  brother — I 
run  a gambling  house.  After  this  you  stick 
to  your  game.  I’ll  stick  to  mine.  In  other 
words — don’t  come  back.” 


[AGNUS  RIDOLPH’S  old  lips  curved 
thoughtfully.  “Legally,  you  possess 
the  right  to  bar  me  from  your  property.” 
Acco  May  nodded.  “You’re  tooting  right 
I do.  Except  I’m  not  referring  to  my  legal 
rights.” 

“Legality  is  the  mathematics  of  social  con- 
duct,” said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “It  is  equally 
as  cogent  as  the  mathematics  of  probability.” 
Acco  May  turned  aw'ay  with  a scornful 
sneer.  “Keep  it  ror  the  birds,  professor. 
And  don’t  forget  what  I told  you.” 


Magnus  Ridolph  cashed  in  the  chips  he 
still  held,  480,000  munits’  worth,  and  left  the 
Hall. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


118 

At  the  Asia-Africa-Commonweath  Bank 
he  deposited  his  cash  winnings,  though  he 
retained  the  check.  Then  outside  in  the  after- 
noon sunlight,  he  turned  to  the  right,  saun- 
tered along  hibiscus-bordered  Kealihanu  Av- 
enue, past  the  Founder’s  Grove  to  the 
esplanade  overlooking  the  ocean.  At  a news- 
vendor he  dialed  for  Commonwealth  Current 
Progress  and  Sociological  Events,  found  a 
seat  on  one  of  the  benches  and  skimmed 
through  the  news  to  the  thunder  of  the 
towering  white  surf. 

But  he  arose  after  a moment,  conscious  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  missed  his  lunch.  Stroll- 
ing down  the  esplanade  to  the  Coral  Garden 
Hotel,  took  the  elevator  to  the  twentieth 
floor  and  the  restaurant  that  occupied  the 
balcony.  Here  he  dined  overlooking  the  vast 
panorama  below,  white-walled,  blue-and- 
red-roofed  Mylitta,  with  the  wooded  dales 
behind  and  the  blue  sunny  sea  ahead. 

Over  his  coffee  he  returned  to  his  news- 
sheet,  and  encountered  an  item  in  the  Crimi- 
nal Activities  section. 

AUTHORITIES  ADMIT  BAFFLEMENT 
IN  CALHOUN  PIRACY  CASE 

Magnus  Ridolph  bent  his  old  head,  read 
the  article.  He  vaguely  recalled  the  facts 
of  the  case : the  freighter  John  Calhoun, 
laden  with  1200  tons  of  bonded  cargo,  had 
been  waylaid  in  space  and  boarded,  with 
death  resulting  to  four  members  of  the  crew. 
The  remainder  had  been  sealed  into  their 
quarters. 

When  at  last  they  freed  themselves,  they 
found  the  cargo  hold  empty,  the  radio 
smashed,  the  engines  disabled.  They  finally 
limped  to  a Space  Survey  station  and  there 
notified  the  T.C.I. 

Magnus  Ridolph  finished  his  coffee,  sat 
back  in  his  chair  with  a cigar.  Now  as  he 
glanced  to  the  side  he  met  eyes  which  fur- 
tively shifted,  at  a table  where  three  men 
sat  quietly  over  thimblefuls  of  sang  de  Dieu. 

Letting  Ws  guileless  blue  gaze  wander 
past  the  three,  Magnus  Ridolph  settled 
more  comfortably  in  his  chair.  Calmly  he 
sat  while  the  orange  sun  drifted,  feather- 
silent,  below  the  horizon.  Dusk  came  quickly, 
and  the  balcony  became  a place  of  warm 
shadow,  lighted  here  and  there  by  the  plan- 
gent tongues  of  candles. 

Magnus  Ridolph  speculatively  eyed  the 
balcony  rail.  It  was  waist-high,  smooth 
native  hardwood.  Two  hundred  ^et  below 
spread  concrete  pavement.  Three  men  sat 


behind  him,  watching  his  movements.  One 
of  these  wore  a cloth  hood  under  which 
Magnus  Ridolph  had  glimpsed  seal-smooth 
blond  hair,  long  animal  eyes. 

Magnus  Ridolph  meditated.  They  would 
wait  till  he  approached  the  rail;  then  would 
come  a quick  shove,  and  a fast  departure. 
In  the  excitement  no  one  would  remember 
exactly  what  had  occurred.  Witnesses’  sto- 
ries would  conflict  on  every  important  point. 
Such  a murder  could  be  done  with  safety. 

If  he  departed  quietly,  he  still  must  walk 
a hundred  yards  of  esplanade  to  Kealihanu 
Avenue. 

The  head-waiter  appeared,  conducting  a 
young  couple  to  a table  by  the  rail  where 
they  could  look  out  into  the  vast  dreaming 
twilight. 

Magnus  Ridolph  arose.  From  the  corner 
of  his  eye  he  noted  the  tensing  of  the  three 
men.  Taking  his  half-full  cup  in  one  hand, 
a glass  of  water  in  the  other,  he  stepped  for- 
ward, flicked  his  wrists,  doused  the  three 
thugs  with  coffee  and  water.  He  seized  an 
edge  to  the  table,  pulled  up,  turned  it  over 
on  the  roaring  men. 

UICKLY  the  anguished  head-waiter, 
was  running  forward,  waving  his  arms. 

“What’s  all  this?  Are  you  insane?”  He 
seized  Magnus  Ridolph  by  the  shoulder,  but 
not  before  the  white-bearded  old  man  tossed 
a flaming  candle  upon  a sprawled  blond  fig- 
ure. 

“Antone — Arthur — Paul!”  bellowed  the 
head-waiter,  and  three  waiters  hurried  for- 
ward. “Lay  hold  of  this  mad-man,  take  him 
to  the  corridor  while  I call  the  police.  Great 
heavens,  what  is  to  be  next?”  He  righted 
the  table,  assisted  the  three  gangsters  to 
their  seats. 

“My  apologies,  sirs,  I assure  you  that 
things  like  this  are  infrequent  at  the  Cafe 
Ventique.  Permit  me  to  order  you-  more 
liqueur.  ” 

Magnus  Ridolph  was  hustled  away,  and 
presently  a brace  of  police  officers  took  him 
into  custody.  The  head-waiter  volubly  ex- 
plained the  offense,  and  demanded  the 
severest  of  penalties.  Magnus  Ridolph  leaned 
in  unruffled  dignity  against  the  cashier’s  desk, 
watched  the  three  men  march  past  with  set 
faces. 

At  police  headquarters  Magnus  Ridolph 
called  the  T.C.I.  station,  asked  for  Com- 
mander Efrem. 

“Magnus  Ridolph!”  barked  the  com- 


SANATORIS 

mander,  peering  at  the  bland  features  on  his 
telescreen.  “What  are  you  doing  in  jail?” 
“I  have  been  arrested  for  hooliganism,” 
said  ilagnus  Ridolph. 

“What’s  that?”  The  commander’s  jaw 
tightened.  “Who’s  responsible  ? Let  me  talk 
to  the  lieutenant,  I’ll  straighten  him  out.” 
An  hour  later  Magnus  Ridolph,  sitting  at 
his  ease,  had  told  his  story  to  Commander 
Efrem,  a small  thin  man  with  a very  lean 
dark  face,  a jaw  jutting  forward  like  a plow. 

"We’ve  finally  got  a lead  on  Acco  May, 
ourselves,”  said  the  commander.  “We’re 
trying  to  link  him  to  the  Calhoun  piracy. 
There’s  positive  identification  »of  a photo- 
graph from  several  of  the  crew,  but  his  alibi 
is  good.  Sanatoris  Beta  is  three-hundred- 
eighty  light  years  away.  The  hold-up  took 
place  exactly — let’s  see,  twelve  and  a half 
days  ago.” 

He  then  pointed  out  that  the  fastest  a ship 
can  go  in  free  space,  -t-  e^,  is  42_J4  light- 
years  a day,  which  totaled  almost  nine  days, 
with  a rock-bottom  minimum  of  two-days 
acceleration  and  two  days  deceleration. 

“That  makes  it  thirteen  days  from  here 
to  there  at  the  absolute  minimum,”  the  com- 
mander went  on.  “But  Acco  May  came  in 
out  of  space  today,  which  is  a day  early.  If 
he  was  in  on  the  Calhoun  piracy,  he  couldn’t 
have  made  the  journey  until  tonight,  at  the 
very  earliest.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  rubbed  his  white  beard 
slowly.  “A  crime  was  committed  at  a dis- 
tance of  thirteen  days,”  Ridolph  said.  “You 
suspect  a man  who  arrives  twelve  days  after 
the  crime  is  committed.  Four  possibilities 
present  themselves.  First,  you  have  mistaken 
the  time  of  the  crime.” 

“No,  that’s  been  definitely  established.” 
“Second,  May’s  ship  travels  faster  than 
light-speed  squared  divided  by  e cubed.  Very 
unlikely.  Third,  Acco  May  is  innocent  of 
the  crime.” 

Commander  Efrem  sat  suddenly  straight 
in  his  chair,  hands  clenched  on  his  desk.  He 
sighed,  slowly  relaxed.  He  lighted  a ciga- 
rette. 

“I’m  afraid  that’s  about  the  size  of  it. 
Acco  May  is  innocent  of  this  crime.  But  he’s 
done  plenty  of  other  things — the  massacre  of 
the  Port  Miranda  natives,  a dozen  murders, 
traffic  in  women,  narcotics,  smuggling,  prac- 
tically every  felony  on  the  books.” 

“Including  conspiracy  to  commit  murder,” 
said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “I  was  to  be  the 


SHORT-CUT  119 

victim.”  He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  touched 
his  chest  gravely.  “Me!” 

Commander  Efrem  grinned.  “And  now 
you  want  his  hide  too?” 

Magnus  Ridolph  tapped  his  fingers  gently 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  “ ‘The  wine  of 
revenge  tastes  richest  to  the  vain.’  Revenge 
is  essentially  a selfish  gratification  for  which 
I have  little  taste.  However,  I agree  with 
you  that  the  criminal  career  of  Acco  May 
has  proceeded  to  an  intolerable  length.” 
Commander  Efrem  nodded  soberly,  a hint 
of  a smile  on  his  thin  mouth.  “In  other 
words,  you  want  his  hide.” 

WHEN  he  left  the  police  station,  Mag- 
nus Ridolph  resisted  the  temptation 
to  visit  the  Lorango  globe.  Instead  he  passed 
under  the  arch  into  the  ante-room  to  Acco 
May’s  office. 

An  exquisite  red-haired  girl  reception- 
ist was  stroking  a yellow  kitten  which 
walked  back  and  forth  on  her  desk  with  a 
tautly  raised  tail.  She  looked  up  at  the  old 
man  with  little  interest. 

“Magnus  Ridolph  to  see  Acco  May,” 
the  scientist  said.  He  scratched  the  kitten 
under  the  chin  while  the  girl  spoke  into  the 
microphone.  She  motioned  him  to  a white 
panel  in  the  dark  hardwood  wall.  As  he 
stepped  forward  it  opened,  revealing  Acco 
May  sitting  cross-legged  on  a leather-up- 
holstered couch.  He  looked  up,  nodded  as 
Magnus  Ridolph  stepped  forward. 

“Sit  down.”  Magnus  Ridolph  did  so. 
“To  what  do  I owe  this  honor?” 

Magnus  Ridolph  looked  at  him  without 
expression. 

“I’m  trying  to  prove  you  guilty  of  the 
lohn  Calhoun  piracy.” 

Acco  May  snorted,  then  laughed  in  real 
amusement. 

“Not  a chance.  I’ve  been  nowhere  near 
Sanatoris  for  years.” 

“Can  you  prove  it?  Survivors  of  the 
Calhoun  identify  your  picture  absolutely.” 
May  shrugged.  “They’re  wrong.  I wasn’t 
there.” 

“You  were  away  from  here  while  the 
piracy  occurred.  Where  were  you  ?” 

Acco  May’s  mouth  hardened.  “What’s 
it  to  you?” 

“At  the  moment  I represent  the  Terres- 
trial Corps  of  Investigation.”  He  reached 
forward,  handed  Acco  May  a card.  May 
read  it,  contemptuously  handed  it  back. 
“You  guys  never  give  up  on  me,  do  you? 


120  STARTLING  STORIES 


Once  and  for  all,  get  it  through  your  col- 
lective noggins,  I’m  a poor  ordinary  business 
man,  running  my  business  here  in  Mylitta, 
I get  taken  by  sharpshooters  just  like  any- 
body else — ^yesterday  for  about  twelve  mil- 
lion munits.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  slowly  fixed  his  gaze  on 
the  ancient  Martian  scarab  which  May  wore 
as  a ring. 

“That  ring  you  wear — I recognize  it. 
It  resembles  a ring  worn  by  my  old  friend, 
Rimmer  Vogel,  killed  in  his  space  yacht 
by  a pirate.’’ 

“Picked  it  up  at  Frog  Junction,”  said 
Acco  May.  “The  froggo  said  he’d  just  dug 
it  out  of  the  ruins.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  nodded. 

“I  see.  Well.  A man’s  soul  is  pictured 
in  his  possessions.” 

Acco  May  languidly  poured  himself  a glass 
of  water  from  the  spout  at  the  side  of  his 
desk.  “Is  that  all  you  came  for?  To  pin  the 
Calhoun  job  on  me?  It  couldn’t  have  been 
me.  Sanatoris  is  two  weeks  or  more  away 
from  here.  I got  home  yesterday.” 

“Which  proves  nothing.  The  distance  can 
be  traveled  in  twelve  days.” 

Acco  May  narrowed  his  eyes,  reached  for 
the  Astrogation  Almanac,  opened  it  to  the 
index,  leafed  back  through  the  book,  read, 
scribbled  a few  figures.  He  shook  his  head, 
grinned  crookedly. 

“You’re  out  of  your  head,  pop.  If  you 
made  it  in  thirteen  days  you’d  be  killing 
yourself — unless  you  rode  a c-three  ulrad 
beam.” 

“No,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “In  an  or- 
dinary space-boat.” 

Acco  May’s  smile  became  wider.  He  sat 
up  on  the  couch. 

“Like  to  make  a little  bet?  If  I remember 
right,  you  hold  my  check  for  twelve  million 
munits.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  deliberated.  “Yes,  I’ll 
make  you  a wager — of  a sort.  I’ll  dictate, 
and  you  write.” 

“What?” 

“ T admit  participation  in  the  boarding  and 
looting  of  the  John  Calhoun^’  " 

Acco  May  looked  up  sharply.  “What  do 
you  think  you’re  doing?” 

“ ‘ — the  murder  of  several  crew-members, 
if  it  can  be  proved  that  a space-boat  is  able 
to  make  the  journey  from  Mylitta  on  Fan  to 
the  Space  Survey  station  at  Sanatoris  Beta 
in  or  under  twelve  days.  I make  this  condi- 
tional confession  of  guilt  in  consideration  of 


the  sum  of  twelve  million  munits,  receipt  of 
which  from  Magnus  Ridolph  is  hereby  ac- 
knowledged.’ ” 

ACCO  MAY  stared  at  Magnus  Ridolph 
a long  minute,  suddenly  turned  once 
more  to  the  Astrogation  Almanac.  His 
mouth  twitched. 

“You  give  me  back  the  check  if  I write 
that  confession,  is  that  it?”  he  asked. 
“Exactly,”  Ridolph  said  with  a nod. 
“Who’s  going  to  make  the  trip  to  Sana- 
toris?” 

“I  am.” 

“In  what?” 

“In  a regulation  T.C.I.  patrol  boat.” 
Acco  May  glanced  once  again  at  the 
Almanac.  “You  can’t  make  it  in  twelve 
days.” 

“I’m  willing  to  pay  twelve  million  munits 
for  the  privilege  of  trying.” 

Acco  May  smiled  wryly.  “You  can’t  make 
it.” 

“Then  you’ll  write  the  conditional  confes- 
sion?” 

Acco  May  hesitated  an  instant.  “Yes,  I’ll 
write  it.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  said,  “May  I use  your 
screen?  I w^ant  this  done  within  the  view  of 
witnesses.” 

“Go  ahead,”  said  Acco  May. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

A large  man  with  loose  ruddy  cheeks, 
tangled  dank  black  hair,  wearing  space 
clothes,  sat  in  the  chair  Magnus  Ridolph  had 
vacated  several  hours  ago.  Acco  May  paced 
up  and  down  the  room,  kneading  his  fist 
into  his  palm. 

“I  don’t  trust  the  old  goat,”  mused  May. 
“He’s  got  something  up  his  sleeve.” 

“He  gave  you  his  check,  didn’t  he?” 
“Yes,”  said  Acco  May  sardonically,  “and 
he  got  my  confession.  Of  course,  he  can’t 
make  no  three-eighty-year-trip  in  twelve 
days.” 

“But  you  made  the  trip  in  twelve  days,” 
said  the  big  man. 

“No,  I didn’t!”  cried  Acco  May  in  ex- 
asperation. “We  used  faked  radio-vision 
shots  and  one  of  my  men,  who’s  the  living 
image  of  me,  entered  port  on  a forged  pass- 
port, a day  ahead  of  time.  Later  we  also 
bribed  two  space  inspectors  at  the  port  of 
entry,  to  give  perjured  testimony  supporting 
my  allegations.  Even  Ridolph  hasn’t  found 


SANATORIS  SHORT-CUT  121 


out  how  it  was  worked.  The  whole  thing  was 
fool-proof.” 

The  big  man  nodded.  “That  was  clever. 
Doesn't  Ridolph  suspect  your  alibi  is  a 
phony?” 

“Sure,  he  suspects — that’s  why  he’s  out  to 
get  me,”  snarled  Acco  May.  “But  he  can’t 
prove  anything.  Therefore  I can’t  risk  hav- 
ing Ridolph  return  here  alive.  And  that’s 
where  you  come  in.  Get  hold  of  Herb  and 
Corvie  and  Steuben.  Post  their  ships  out 
along  the  course  to  Sanatoris.  You  take 
your  ship  out  there  too,  and  place  yourselves 
so  that,  if  one  misses  him,  the  others  will  be 
sure  to  get  Ridolph.  And  don’t  fail ! Under- 
stand?” 

The  large  man  got  to  his  feet.  “Sure  do.” 

“ Y ou’ve  got  to  hurry,  he’s  leaving  at  mid- 
night.” 

“We’ll  be  waiting  for  him  to  come  past.” 

“Tell  the  boys,  a million  munits  to  the  ship 
that  downs  him.” 

At  three  o'clock  the  next  day  the  large 
man  again  entered  Acco  May’s  office.  His 
eyes  were  blood-shot,  his  jowls  sagged,  and 
he  walked  with  an  air  of  extreme  fatigue. 

“Well,”  snapped  Acco  May,  “what’s  the 
story?” 

The  large  man  slumped  into  the  chair. 
“He  got  past  us.” 

Acco  May  sprang  to  his  feet.  “How  in 
thunder  did  that  happen  ? . . . Four  boats!” 

The  space-man  shook  his  head.  “1  thought 
you  said  he  was  heading  for  Sanatoris  Beta.” 

“He  is,  you  dumb  sheepherder  I” 

The  large  man  glared  sullenly  at  the  pas- 
sionate May. 

“We  was  strung  out  along  course,  straight 
as  the  Galactic  Liners.  He  came  out,  we 
saw  that,  but  nowhere  near  us.  Looked  like 
he  was  going  off  more  tow'ard  Alcyone.” 

Acco  May  chewed  his  lip.  “Well,  it’s  a 
cinch  once  he  gets  off  course  he’s  out  of  the 
running  entirely.  . . Okay  then.  Rock.  I 
guess  you’re  not  to  be  blamed.  He’s  off 
course,  you  say?” 

“Way  off  course,”  said  Rock  the  space- 
man. 

Acco  May  smiled  grimly.  “Well,  it’s  a 
quick  way  to  make  twelve  million  munits. 
Almost  as  quick  as  he  made  it  off  of  me.” 

SE'VERAL  months  later,  the  judge  read 
sentence;  “By  your  own  admission 
guilty  of  piracy,  grand  larceny,  assault  and 
murder,  I sentence  you  to  comprehensive 
cerebral  correction  and  five  years  close  ob- 


servation. Have  you  anything  to  say?” 

Acco  May  stared  at  the  judge,  eyes  like 
tiger-slits.  “No.” 

The  guards  stepped  forward.  Acco  May 
turned  his  head  toward  where  Magnus 
Ridolph  sat  in  dignity.  He  thrust  aside  the 
guards. 

“Just  a minute,”  he  said.  “I  want  to  talk 
to  that  old  hellion  sitting  yonder.” 

The  guards  hesitated,  glanced  for  permis- 
sion to  the  judge.  But  the  judge  was  sweep- 
ing for  his  chambers. 

Magnus  Ridolph  decided  the  matter  by 
stepping  forward. 

“You  wish  to  speak  to  me?” 

“Yeah.  I know  there’s  about  two  hours  of 
Acco  May  left,  and  after  that  a man  looking 
like  me  goes  around  wearing  my  clothes. 
First  I want  to  know  how  the  devil  did  you 
make  Sanatoris  in  twelve  days?” 

Magnus  Ridolph  raised  his  eyebrows.  “By 
correct  astrogation,” 

Acco  May  made  an  impatient  gesture. 
“Yes,  yes,  I know.  But  what’s  the  inside?” 
Magnus  Ridolph’s  gaze  wandered  to  the 
Martian  scarab  on  Acco  May’s  finger.  “The 
ring  your — ah,  frog-man  found — I confess  it 
has  struck  my  fancy.  I always  envied  my 
old  friend  Rimmer  Vogel  when  he  wore  the 
ring  which  was  so  like  it.” 

Acco  May  wrenched  it  off  his  finger  with 
a savage  smile.  “No  tickee  no  washee,  hey? 
Okay,  here’s  your  fee.  Now  what’s  the 
pitch?” 

Magnus  Ridolph  gestured  eloquently. 
“Ordinary  astrogation,  nothing  more.  With 
the  exception,  possibly,  of  a small  refinement 
I have  developed.” 

“What’s  the  refinement?” 

Magnus  Ridolph  turned  Acco  May  the 
blandest  of  stares. 

“Have  you  ever  examined  a Mercator 
projection  of,  let  us  say,  the  planet  Earth?” 
“Naturally.” 

“The  shortest  course  between  two  points, 
when  charted  on  a Mercator  projection,  ap- 
pears as  a curve,  does  it  not?” 

“Yes.” 

“Classical  space  charts,”  said  Magnus 
Ridolph,  “are  constructed  after  the  pattern 
of  a Mercator  projection.  The  coordinates 
meet  rectilinearally,  the  grid  components 
running  perfectly  parallel  but  to  infinity. 
This  is  an  admirable  system  for  short  voy- 
ages, just  as  use  of  the  Mercator  projection 
results  in  little  error  on  a cruise  across  Long 
Island  Sound. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


122 

“However  on  voyages  of  some  duration,  it 
is  necessary  to  remember  that  the  earth  and 
— on  a larger  scale — space  is  curved,  and  to 
make  the  necessary  correction.  Then  we  find 
a very  significant  saving  of  time.  A journey 
which  by  classical  astrogation  requires  thir- 
teen days,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph,  turning 
upon  Acco  May  his  wide  guileless  gaze, 
“may  be  accomplished  in  twelve  days  by  use 
of  the  proper  correction — though  to  the 
ignorant  eye,  it  would  appear  as  if  the  astro- 
gator  is  far  off  his  course.” 


Acco  May  turned  his  back  on  Magnus 
Ridolph,  his  mouth  like  an  inverted  V. 
“Take  me  away,”  he  muttered.  “Maybe  the 
new  me  will  be  brighter.  If  he  is,  he’s  going 
to  go  after  that  old  goat  and  make  him  swal- 
low his  own  whiskers.” 

“Get  goin’,”  said  the  guard. 

Magnus  Ridolph  dispassionately  watched 
them  leave.  Then,  turning  his  eyes  to  his 
hand,  he  inspected  the  ancient  Martian 
scarab — breathed  on  it,  polished  it  on  his 
sleeve. 


THE  ETHER  VIBRATES 

(Continued  from  page  9) 


Well,  thanks  for  giving  us  another  first. 
Bob — or  is  it  Wilson?  At  any  rate,  thanks  for 
a highly  amusing  letter.  We  read  your  book. 
The  Chinese  Doll,  some  time  ago  and  foimd  it 
a most  entertaining  job.  Have  not  got  hold 
of  its  successor  as  yet  due  to  having  kept  the 
Schlesinger  Age  of  Jackson  so  long  we’re 
afraid  to  show  our  noses  in  the  local  lending 
library.  (To  uninitiated  readers — Bob  Tuck- 
er uses  the  first  name  Wilson  in  his  more 
commercial  literary  pursuits.) 

We’ll  probably  keep  on  punning,  however. 

AUTHOR— AUTHOR! 

by  Arthur  Leo  Zagat 

Dear  Editor:  Once  in  a very  great  while  a story 
comes  along  that  moves  me  to  a wistful,  “I  wish  I 
could  have  written  this.”  Such  a one  is  MASK  OF 
CIRCE,  in  the  May  SS.  It  is  fantasy  in  the  grand  tra- 
dition of  Merritt  and  the  other  giants,  yet  so  deftly  in- 
terwoven with  scientific  explanation  that  it  belongs 
not  in  the  realm  of  pure  dreams  but  to  realism. 

This  linking  of  myth  and  materialism,  together  with 
its  apperceptive  treatment  of  its  principal  character 
as  a real  human  being  neither  wholly  good  nor  wholly 
bad  but  the  victim  of  that  ambivalence  which  afflicts 
us  all,  is  what  makes  MASK  a great  document. 

Admirable  too  are  not  only  the  style,  the  repressed 
yet  effective  emotionalising,  but  the  splendid  crafts- 
manship manifested  throughout.  For  this  last,  by  the 
way,  I have  a hunch  you  and  your  staff  must  be  given 
some  of  the  credit.  I know  from  experience  that  you 
insist  on  the  highest  degree  of  craftsmanship  in  the 
yams  you  buy. 

I am  not  acquainted  with  Henry  Kuthier,  so  will 
you  please  convey  to  him  my  congratulations  on  THE 
MASK  OF  CIRCE.  And  to  the  staff  of  STARTLING 
STORIES  a bouquet. — 1749  Grand  Concourse,  New 
York  53,  N.  Y. 


Golly — garlands  no  less!  Thanks,  Arthur, 
but  we  don’t  really  see  how  we  rate  them. 
No  one  has  yet  had  to  tell  Henry  Kuttner 
how  a story  should  be  written,  be  it  mystery, 
fantasy  or  stf.  He  has  his  own  standards  and 
they  do  not  demand  any  stabs  of  the  editorial 
goad. 

Praise  from  another  and  disinterested  au- 


thor is  about  the  highest  we  can  get  for  one 
of  our  stories. 

GOOD  STUFF! 

by  Chad  Oliver 

Dear  Editor;  Y'know.  STARTLING  and  your  hum- 
ble correspondent  have  been  cruising  the  spaceways  to- 
gether  for  quite  some  time  now  and  somewhere  along 
the  line  I have  been  dubbed  “critical” — or  less  savory 
words  to  that  effect.  You  know — Exiles  From  The 
Planetoid  of  Green  Ghouls  must  have  been  a classic; 
even  Oliver  thought  that  it  was  pretty  good.  . . 

Wal  sir,  my  criticism,  such  as  it  is,  stems  from  a 
rather  pathological  like  of  stfantasy.  Its  more  hack- 
neyed aspects  seem  more  trivial  ttian  ever,  relative 
to  the  good  stuff,  if  that  makes  any  sense.  Howevah, 
like  most  normal  (do  I hear  disagreement?)  people,  I 
would  much  rather  shower  bravos  than  wet  blankets. 
So — I should  enjoy  writing  this  letter.  1 hope  you 
enjoy  reading  it. 

The  May  SS  was  good  stuff.  Sir  Editor.  About  the 
best  all-around  issue  that  my  feeble  memory  recalls. 
There  wasn’t  a poor  story  in  the  lot,  and  four  were 
decidedly  good. 

Williams'  The  Seekers  gels  my  nod  for  first  place. 
When  you  went  beneath  the  surface  on  this  one,  there 
was  something  there,  instead  of  the  customary  void. 
I like  the  theme,  I like  the  writing,  I like  the  story 
very  much.  Thanx  for  printing  it! 

Another  neat  jeb  was  The  House  Of  Rising  Winds 
by  the  surprisingly  reformed  Mr.  Long.  Obviously, 
Ray  Bradbury  is  fast  becoming  a major  influence  in 
science  fiction,  as  well  as  the  weird  field.  That  ain’t 
bad,  pard,  that  ain’t  bad!  This  is  not  to  decry  Mr. 
Long — idea,  plot,  and  writing  in  THORW  were  first- 
rate. 

Kuttner’s  short  novel.  The  Mask  of  Circe,  was  fine 
likewise.  (Egad,  this  is  startling!)  Hank  is  nearly  al- 
ways an  exceptional  writer.  Circe  was  good  fantasy,  a 
trifle  weakened  (as  was  his  superb  Dark  World)  by 
"scientific”  explanations.  I shall  become  a shunned 
radical  and  refrain  from  comparing  him  to  Merritt  on 
this  type  yam.  Ah  me,  Jason  gets  it  this  time.  What 
next?  Perhaps  we  should  turn  Mr.  Kuttner  loose  on 
Winnie  the  Pooh.  I can  see  it  all  now.  The  bear  is  real, 
ly  a robot  from  Neptune,  and  Robin  a psychiatrist.  . . 

I also  enjoyed  Cummings’  The  Simple  Life,  more  for 
the  idea  than  anything  else.  The  others  were  quite 
acceptable,  though  I particularly  regret  the  implausi- 
ble development  of  After  The  Atom.  Feam  had  a nice 
idea  there. 

There  is  a most  commendable  air  of  maturity  hover- 
ing  about  this  issue — beginning  just  beyond  the  cover, 
which  is  as  usual.  The  writers  have  clearly  been  think- 
ing a bit  about  such  things  as  precisely  where  our 
vaunted  science  is  leading  us,  and  in  The  Seekers 
there  is  more  than  a hint  about  the  assumed  godlike 
stature  of  Man  with  a capital  M.  Thank  you.  Editor. 
Tears  stream  from  my  weary  old  eyes. 

The  long  TEV  was  appreciated,  and  Cynthia  Carey’s 


THK  El’HEK 

letter  on  Dr.  Keller  especially  interesting.  One  mis- 
take, however — STARTLING  reprinted  his  Literary 
Corkscrew  (a  wonderful  yam)  back  in  May  of  ’41,  as 
well  as  The  Boneless  Horror.  For  one,  I would  like  to 
see  some  of  his  new  work  in  SS.  It’s  plenty  good — I 
know,  because  I read  a few  in  meinuscript  and  he  read 
a few  to  me  himself.  Nobody  can  read  a story  like 
Dr.  Keller.  I have  spoken. 

With  regard  to  the  Hall  of  Fame  in  general,  you  are 
perhaps  right  in  dispensing  with  it.  It  has  not  been  a 
total  loss,  however — all  the  Weinbaum  reprints  have 
been  good,  for  instance.  Should  the  feature  be  con- 
tinued, I think  that  you  should  concentrate  on  writers 
with  a less  transitory  appeal  than  Ernst,  Hamilton,  et 
al.  For  example,  Clark  Ashton  Smith  or  Dr.  Keller. 
Smith’s  descriptive  fables  are  as  good  today  as  yes- 
terday, and  the  colonel  wrote  about  somemlng  that 
does  not  change  much  with  the  years — basic  human 
reactions. 

Finlay’s  great,  and  so  is  Stevens.  With  that.  I bid 
you  farewell.  Tungsten  is  waitin’,  and  there’s  been  a 
footin’  down  in  San  Antone. — 2410  Wichita,  Austin, 
Texas. 


The  increase  in  size,  which  has  enabled  us 
to  select  longer  stories  for  the  Hall  of  Fame 
has  given  that  much-maligned  department  a 
shot  in  the  upper  ulna  So  you’ll  be  con- 
tinuing to  see  it  in  SS. 

As  for  Dr.  Keller,  we  quite  agree  on  all 
counts.  However,  such  of  his  recent  work  as 
has  been  submitted  to  us  has  run  a bit  more 
heavily  to  parable-sermon  forms  than  we  like 
to  run  in  our  magazines.  Heck,  we  aren’t  out 
to  reform  the  world — ^we’re  generally  too 
busy  blasting  it  to  bits. 

Give  our  regards  to  Tungsten,  the  steed 
son  peuTj  sans  reproche  et  sans  culottes, 

ANOTHER  FIRST 

by  William  E.  Stolze 

Dear  Editor:  Seems  rather  appropriate  that  this — my 
first  letter  to  a stfmag — should  be  directed  to  StartUng 
Stories;  1 first  tasted  of  the  forbidden  fruit  in  the  Jan., 
1939  issue  (Vol.  I,  No.  1).  “The  Black  Flame”  was, 
and  still  is,  my  very  special  favorite,  and  though  the 
quality  of  the  material  in  SS  gradually  declined  thru 
the  years,  it  has  held  a predominant  position  in  my 
humble  estimate  for  just  that  very  reason.  Have  pre- 
ferred to  remain  silent  during  the  past  decade,  but 
feel  bound  to  break  said  silence  due  to  recently  de- 
veloped circumstances.  So  if  you’ll  bear  with  me, 
honorable  one.  I’ll  proceed  to  calmly  and  collectively 
let  my  hair  down. 

After  accumulating  a vast  repertoire  of  stf  publica- 
tions, my  interest  suddenly,  but  definitely,  waned. 
The  increasing  amount  of  hack  writing  in  the  field,  as 
a whole,  began  to  take  its  toll  on  my  time-worn  nerves 
— the  war  acted  as  a stimulus — and.  to  make  a long 
story  extremely  short,  it  has  now  been  a good  three 
or  four  years  since  I perused  my  last  bit  of  fanta- 
science. 

Why  then — the  Great  Return? 

Shall  we  say  that  stf  is  like  a strong  shot  of  heroin? 
That  once  consumed,  it  creates  such  a livid  ache  in 
one’s  heart  that  one  cannot  justifiably  do  without  it? 
Or  is  that  too  strong?  Yet  it  emphasizes  my  feelings, 
dear  Ed.  At  any  rate,  curiosity  can  kill  even  a Jovian 
were-cat,  as  we  all  know  so  well.  So  be  it — I am  here. 
Praise  be  to  the  great  days  of  disenchantment!  All 
hallowed  by  thy  space-warp! 

It  may  be  of  some  slight  interest  to  you  to  know 
that  your  competitors  have  failed,  to  rise  out  of  the 
mire.  I discovered  that  before  I decided  to  take  one 
last  fling — said  fling  was  flimg  with  a flang  on  SS — 
thank  God.  I did  not  have  to  retire  again  to  that 
stagnant  grave  of  infinite  negativity  that  one  retires 
to  when  one  must  do  without  the  great  light  of 
entertaining  stf. 

Ill  admit — the  cover  almost  scared  me  away.  But, 


VIBRATES  123 

being  a hardy  soul,  I purchased  the  May  SS,  and  what 
I found  between  those  pages  made  me  truly  want  to 
climb  the  snowy  slopes  of  Mt.  Zyxcbr,  and  shout, 
“Odds  Bodkins!”  till  hell  froze  over. 

My  dear,  worthy,  and  wordy  Editor,  you  have  done 
your  immeasurable  little  bit  to  help  restore  my  faith 
in  ‘‘the  great  game.”  Please,  PLEASE,  keep  it  just 
that  way. 

Now — avant  with  the  verbiage,  and  on  with  the 
show. 

I have  often  wondered  why  stfeditors  have  gone  to 
the  trouble  of  setting  up  a letter  dept. — and  then  have 
sat  back  on  their  proud  little  paunches  to  let  the  dear, 
worldly-wise  fans  go  at  it  hands,  nails,  teeth,  feet  and 
toes  till  the  Great  Gawd  Pulp  burned  like  seven 
Devils. 

The  Ether  Vibrates  is  quite  a jvimp  in  the  right  di- 
rection— long,  mgumentative  and  more  than  a little 
thought-provoking,  besides  giving  us  a good  laugh  in 
the  bargain.  Moreover,  your  rebuttals  at  the  close  of 
each  missive  help  make  it  something  more  ^an  "full 
of  sound  and  fury,  etc.  . We  all  have  questions — if 
thou  hast  the  answers,  please  elucidate.  At  least,  then, 
we  don’t  have  to  blow  our  batty  bull  to  the  empty 
breeze. 

Commentary  on  the  stories  in  the  May  issue: 

1)  The  Mask  of  Circe — I remember  the  days  when 
the  fans  were  crying  for  Kuttner’s  scalp— hah!  Long 
may  they  be  forgotten.  Hank  has  done  a job  here  that 
will  last  with  Merritt,  Lovecraft  and  Weinbaum  (take 
your  pick!).  Beautiful  blend  of  fantasy  and  stf,  with 
the  accent  decidedly  on  the  former.  Surprised  to  find 
you  headed  slightly — ever  so  slightly — to  the  left. 
But  I always  was  a bit  of  a radical.  Fortimately,  a 
couple  of  good  fantasies  can  always  spice  up  a back- 
bone of  stf.  This  is  crying  for  a sequel,  so  pulleeze  . . . 

2)  House  of  Rising  Winds — FBL’s  best  since  “White 
Barrier.”  Keep  him  writing  this  kind  of  stuff — and  it 
wouldn’t  hurt  to  have  him  do  a long  novel  in  the 
same  atmosphere. 

3)  After  The  Atom — Feam  has  talent,  when  used  in 
the  ri^t  direction.  Interesting. 

4)  The  Microscopic  Giants — I wouldn’t  want  to  see 
the  HOF  dropped  out  just  yet;  there’s  still  a wealtii  of 
good  material,  as  this  proves.  While  not  exactly  a clas- 
sic, it’s  stuff  like  this  that  we  want  for  fillers,  not  the 
glorified  adventure  yams  that  follow.  . . 

5)  The  Seekers — ^If  Williams  would  dismiss  with 
the  melodrama,  he  would  be  capable  of  turning  out 
some  nice  work.  Much  better  than  this — yet  it’s  bet- 
ter than  fair. 

6)  Journey — I know  GeorgO  is  capable  of  more. 

7)  No  Escape  From  Destiny — Never  did  like  Zagat’s 
yen  for  detective  stories  in  this  field. 

8)  The  Simple  Life — Too  simple.  Tell  Ray  to  stop 
wasting  his  time  with  such  nonsense,  and  get  to  work 
on  a long  epic,  comparable  to  his  early  work. 

So  you  see,  even  after  all  my  previous  ranting, 
you’re  still  not  perfect.  What?  Hell  yes,  I want  per- 
fection. (At  least  by  giving  you  the  heave-ho,  I can 
hoi^  to  see  you  maintain  the  level  you  now  hold, 
which  is  ’way  ahead  of  the  field,  and  far  up  the  ladder 
from  the  bottom  rung  you  held  when  I dropped  out 
of  the  picture.)  If,  after  the  rest  of  the  contemporary 
hack  I’ve  seen — and  if,  as  the  fans  seem  to  think— 
you’re  still  improving,  I shall  be  blowing  the  tail- 
gate on  your  band-wagon  till  Sneary  learns  to  spell. 

The  controversy  on  the  distinction  between  fantasy 
and  stf  is  interesting.  I believe  you  came  closer  to  the 
answer  when  you  answered  John  Harwood’s  letter  by 
stating  tiiat  the  purpose  of  science  fiction  was  to  make 
the  incredible  seem  plausible.  May  I go  one  step 
further,  and  that  the  purpose  of  fanta^,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  to  keep  the  incredible  incredible? 
Hm.  . . Incredibly  plausible  solution,  eh? 

As  to  the  discussion  on  Kuttner  vs.  Merritt  vs.  Wein- 
batim  vs.  Lovecraft.  ...  I like  ’em  all.  Come  now. 
boys,  I know  we  all  have  our  prejudices,  but  isn’t 
variety  the  spice  . . . etc?  Much  as  I revel  in  the 
works  of  the  above  named,  I wouldn’t  want  to  spend 
all  my  life  reading  just  one — and  one  alone.  Which 
brings  me  to  another  point. 

Don’t  ever,  ever  fail  into  a policy  rut,  editor — I 
mean,  such  as  the  type  of  rut  whi^  prevents  you  from 
using  more  than  a certain  dozen  authors  over  and 
over  again.  I realize  that  you  don’t  get  a hvmdred  dif- 
ferent manuscripts  every  day — also  that  the  better 
authors  don’t  complete  a masterpiece  in  a few  hours — 
but  you  know  as  well  as  I that  there’s  a galaxy  of 
writers  to  draw  talent  from  today.  Enough  so  that  you 
can  ladle  out  the  cream  from  the  milk  and  still  get 
variety. 


124 


STARTLING  STORIES 


Suggestions:  ^ 

a)  How  about  a Finlay  cover?  Please  give  Bergey 
a long  vacation,  or  tell  him  to  de-sensationaUze. 

b)  Cartier,  Rogers,  Schneeman  & Wesso  would  make 
great  “inside"  men — with  the  great  mast«:,  VF,  as  the 
nucleus. 

c)  Go  monthly.  ^ 

d)  Keep  Kuttner  & FBLong— get  LRon  Hubbard, 
deC^mp,  vanVogt,  Heinlein,  Bloch,  and  try  and  get 
John  Taine  to  do  a novel  for  you.  I still  rem^ber 
"The  Ultimate  Catalyst"  in  a 1940  TWS. 

e)  More  Weinbaum  in  the  Hall  of  Fame,  please,  a 

little  Kline,  and  the  first  of  the  Arthur  K.  Barnes 
“Gerry  Carlyle"  series-  _ , 

f)  Now  that  you  have  a few  dozen  extra  pag^,  why 
not  ^ve  us  two  long  novels  eveiy  once  in  a while,  and 
dr<^  the  time-wasting  fillers.  Four  or  five  good  stories 
^ould  be  preferable. 

g)  Where  is  Alfred  Bester?  He  wrote  several  gems 
for  you  after  winning  your  first  contest. 

Sorry,  I’m  at  the  end  of  my  rope.  (I  hear  a hearty 
sigh  of  reUef.)  But  I’ll  be  back.  (And  now  a mon- 
strous groan.)  Sure,  I know  this  is  too  damn  long — 
but  I had  to  get  it  off  my  chest  Next  time.  I’ll  keep  it 
down,  I promise.  You  can  print  ^is — in  whole  or  m 
part.  You  can  cut  it  to  ribbons,  leaving  only  my  nanw 
and  address,  and  a silent  snifHe.  You  can  drop  it  m 
the  wastebasket  (Plunk!)  But  if  you’ve  gone  ^ far, 
I know  you^ve  got  the  point  of  my  letter,  so  all  s fw- 
given. 

Otiier  than  that.  I’d  like  to  know  whether  there 
are  any  fans  down  my  way:  if  ihere  I 
been  able  to  contact  any  as  yet. — P.  O.  Box  #933, 
McComb,  Mississippi. 


We  are  always  on  the  lookout  for  new 
authors,  William  E.  In  the  current  year  we 
have  introduced  R.C.W.  Ettinger  and  E. 
Everett  Evans  and  brought  James  Blish  into 
our  fold.  Also  the  DeCourcys,  Carroll,  Benj. 
Miller,  William  F.  Temple,  John  D.  Mac- 
Donald, Charles  L.  Harness  and  Joe  Gibson, 
Such  veterans  as  Jacobi,  Emmett,  McDowell, 
Jack  Vance,  Ray  Gallun,  Leigh  Brackett, 
Arthur  Leo  Zagat,  ELannes  Bok,  Rene  La- 
Fayette  and  Fredric  Brown  have  reappeared 
in  our  pages  and  those  of  TWS. 

Keeping  this  record  in  mind  we  don’t  think 
ourselves  likely  to  fall  into  the  groove  of 
just  a few  regulars — even  when  such  regulars 
include  names  like  Hamilton,  Leinster,  Kut- 
tner, Bradbury,  St.  Clair,  Loomis  and  Tenn 
among  others.  And  the  near  double  size  of 
the  books  virtually  rule  out  any  such  de- 
velopment if  quality  is  to  be  maintained, 
much  less  improved. 

We’ll  ladle  out  all  the  cream  we  can  get 
our  hands  on. 

As  for  your  suggestions — ^we  like  Bergey 
and  he  takes  orders  on  the  covers  with 
newsstand,  not  fan,  sales  in  mind.  Agree 
with  you  on  the  inside  illustrators,  but  none 
of  the  boys  you  mention  have  been  coming 
around.  Going  monthly  is  currently  out  of 
the  question — ^but  the  two  enlarged  maga- 
zines, appearing  bi-monthly,  combine  to 
make  us  about  as  monthly  as  we  can  get. 

We’ll  keep  Kuttner  and  Long  as  long  as 
they  wish  to  write  for  us.  Hubbard  is  cur- 
rently working  for  us  but  the  other  authors 
seem  at  the  moment  to  be  committed  to 


other  projects,  chiefly  non-stf.  We’ve  used  up 
all  our  Weinbaums  in  the  HoF  at  the  moment 
— ^but  the  Gerry  Carlyle  idea  is  good.  Two 
lc«ig  novels  don’t  offer  sufficient  guarantee 
of  variety  but  youll  be  getting  more  and 
longer  novelets.  We  haven’t  heard  hair  nor 
hide  of  Bester  in  years. 

Suggestion  from  us  to  you — ^write  us  again, 
and  not  in  another  nine  years. 

HUH? 

by  Rick  Sneary 


Dear  Sir:  Time,  tide  and  publishers  wate  for  no 
man,  so  if  I expect  to  get  my  monthly  dose  of  ego- 
boo  I had  better  get  at  it.  It  really  do^  s«ve  a per- 
pose,  I keep  telling  myself.  By  interesting  the  pasi- 
fans  that  write  me  4n  ative  fandom,  I draw  In  a little 
new  blood.  For  example  Van  Couvering.  'What’s  that? 
You  say  a few  more  like  him  and  fandom  is  warshed 
up.  Yeah  maybe  so,  but  then  maybe  it  needs  a clean- 
ing. 

You  know  there  is  talk  going  around  that  for  a 
stoy  to  pass  you.  It  has  to  start  In  the  present  and  then 
move  cm  into  the  past,  future,  or  other  demenUoni. 
And  with  Mask  of  Circe  it  is  finely  proved.  How 
about  ex^lning  way.  I personly  dcm't  see  the  point. 
It  messed  this  tme  up  good. 

I guess  Merritt  did  it,  but  you  can  go  on  writing 
like  he  did  for  ever.  Or  can  you.  Any  way  a couple 
of  the  best  Fantasies  I ever  read,  (and  I admittedly 
read  few)  started  in  a nother  world.  Of  course  it 
might  be  easyer  for  souse  of  your  readers  to  fit  th»u 
self  into  the  plot  worked  Qiat  way,  but  any  real  lover 
of  die  strage  woiildnt  find  it  at  all  hard. 

Specking  of  the  MASK.  Hank  is  up  to  the  <rid 
tricks.  Using  the  same  type  of  hero,  heroin,  gods  as 
ever.  And  you  yourself  said  he  did.  It  is  a neet  trick, 
but  it  is  a little  tiresome.  I’ll  admit  there  was  quite  a 
bit  different  about  the  setting  this  time.  And  frankly 
it  had  a lot  more  possabllities  than  Hank  used.  Why 
does  the  hero  always  havg  to  be  a world  saver,  evU 
killing  superman?  Some  of  the  old  timers  nodoubt  re- 
member a little  guy  named  Pete  Manx  that  Hank  use  to 
fool  around  with.  He  had  some  reather  Imposable  ad- 
ventures, but  he  didn’t  sound  quite  like  a superman. 

One  fault  with  this  story  is  that  Hank  used  names  <rf 
gods  and  people  we  all  have  read  about  more  or  less. 
And  I was  continuly  expecting  things  to  happen  as  they 
did  in  the  old  story.  In  fact  dam  Utfle  happened  tell 
almost  the  end. 

Most  interesting,  and  elearcut  personality  in  the 
story  was  Panyr  the  fawn.  I don’t  care  to  much  for 
fantasy,  but  I like  it  good  when  it  is  forced  on  me. 
This  was  only  fair.  I like  Kuttner,  and  keep  on  vot- 
ing him  best,  but  not  for  the  fantasy  he  does. 

I see  the  old  master  (?)  stf  hack  ray  cummings  is 
back.  Well  as  long  as  it  isn’t  about  Tuby  it  is 
exceptable.  The  only  barly. 

The  best  story  of  the  Issue  was  The  Seekers.  It 
played  on  a persons  moods  quite  well.  Infact  I am 
not  quite  sure  I agreed  with  the  ending.  New  ideas, 
new  faces  are  of  course  a good  idea.  But  men  like 
Vraln.  . . I wonder.  . . Of  course  I still  doubt  that 
any  such  man  would  be  in  any  of  the  first  rockets. 
But  let  us  suppose  for  the  sake  of  the  story.  What 
would  happen?  You  would  have  a nother  Cortez.  It  is 
possable  that  ttie  Astex  of  today  are  better  people. 
But  there  is  a question  as  to  way  it  was  done. 

No,  I believe  I would  have  frozen  the  ship  and 
hung  it  by  the  gate.  With  white  men  left  on  Mars 
to  explain  the  reason,  I can  see  little  harm.  . . . Ex- 
cept to  the  men  In  the  ship,  and  they  were  pictured 
as  a hard  lot.  As  I said  before,  I feel  sorry  for  any 
Martions  If  there  are  any.  I truely  do.  That  is  inless 
they  are  smart  and  have  death  ray.  In  that  case  they 
can — 

Say  I agree  with  C.  Duty.  Rub  out  a few  of  your 
poet  readers.  With  red  pincle  of  blue  automatic,  it 
makes  no  dlff.  A few  are  good,  you  are  fine.  But 
for  the  most  part  they  rime  as  well  as  I spell.  . . Be- 
gone with  them  I say.  I dielike  most  poems  anyway. 
(No  I’m  not  tone-deaf.)  So  Eadle  Smith  wants  to 
know  what  1 look  like.  Well  she  can  come  over  and 
see  if  she  cares.  Anyone  elce  wanting  to  know  just 


THE  ETHER  VIBRATES  125 


drop  me  a self  adreased  packing  box  complect  wltii  5 
days  rations  and  I’ll  come  let  you  see  me  in  person. 
Guess  that  is  all.  I sec  smoke  coming  out  of  the 
bookcase  again.  I guess  one  of  the  little  blue  men  is 
looking  at  the  Jan.  cover  again.  Tosh,! — 2962  Santa 
Ana  St,  South  Gate,  Calif. 


You  picked  on  the  wrong  point,  Rick,  in 
charging  us  with  demanding  return  to  the 
past  in  all  our  lead  stories.  Certainly,  since 
the  May  issue,  we’ve  not  been  turning  the 
clock  in  reverse.  Hamilton’s  VALLEY  OF 
CREATION  in  the  July  issue  was  concerned 
with  the  present,  Fred  Brown’s  WHAT  MAD 
UNIVERSE  in  this  one  has  to  do  with 
the  near  future,  Arthur  Clarke’s  AGAINST 
THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT  in  the  November 
edition  deals  with  the  far-distant  future, 
Henry  Kuttner’s  THE  TIME  AXIS  in  Janu- 
ary is  woven  around  both  present  and  future 
and  THE  BLACK  GALAXY  by  Murray 
Leinster  in  March  tells  of  space  travels  in 
time  soon  to  come. 

Furthermore,  only  in  the  Clarke  story,  is 
the  leading  figure  in  any  way  a person  of  un- 
common talents.  Which  should  pretty  well 
demolish  your  superman  beef.  By  the  way, 
do  you  and  Stolze  share  the  same  heroin? 

Undigressing  for  a moment,  this  business 
of  author  trends  all  too  often  presents  one 
of  the  toughest  nuts  in  editing.  Some  event 
or  series  of  events  in  the  world  seems  to  start 
all  our  writers  moving  along  the  same  track 
simultaneously.  Especially  when  the  stories 
are  good  it  is  all  too  easy  to  fail  to  notice 
such  similarities — and  when  they  are  read 
months  apart,  as  often  happens. 


KUTTNEROPHILE 

by  Marion  “Astra”  Zimmer 


My  dear  sir:  If  there  is  any  fan  among  the  whole 
readership  of  STARTLING  STORIES  who,  after  read- 
ing THE  MASK  OF  CtRCE,  can  truthfully  say  they 
prefer  Merritt,  with  his  long-drawn-out  stories  and 
stereotyped  characters,  to  the  undiminishing  imagina- 
tion of  Kuttner’s  science-fantasy,  then  they  have  my 
sincere  sympathy. 

Lin  Carter  told  me  once  on  a time,  not  too  long 
ago,  that  “Kuttner  was  just  a pulp  writer;  Merritt  a 
WRITER.”  My  dear  Lin;  also,  all  other  defenders  of 
Merritt  and  other  primitives;  do  you  not  know  that 
Merritt’s  tales  appeared  first  in  the  old  pulps,  that  the 
pulps  of  yesteryear,  as  far  as  that  goes,  were  far 
^'pulpier”  than  those  of  today?  In  fact,  were  the 
paper  shortage  a little  less  acute,  I have  no  doubt  but 
what  most  of  the  present  science  fiction  and  fantasy 
magazines  would  print  on  slick  paper.  And  after  all, 
it  is  not  the  quality  of  the  paper,  but  the  quality  of 
the  stories,  which  makes  a magazine  “pulp,”  “slick”  or 
“quality.” 

THE  MASK  OF  CIRCE,  although  in  my  estimation 
not  as  good  as  my  beloved  DARK  WORLD,  far,  far  out- 
strips Merritt’s  long  novels.  Some  people  may  say 
(since  some  unwise  creature  dared  to  accuse  THE 
DARK  WORLD  of  being  a rewrite  of  The  Dwellers  in 
the  Mirage)  that  Mask  resembles  The  Ship  of  Ishtar, 
However,  I am  going  to  forestall  them,  and  working 
on  that  basis,  compare  the  two. 

Kenton  and  Seward;  which  is  fitter?  Kenton,  per- 


haps. Seward  is  abstract,  less  detailed,  a pawn.  Cer- 
tainly he  lacks  the  concrete  clearness  ^ Ganelon, 
whom  even  Merritt,  that  limner  of  types,  never  sur- 
passed. Cyane  ditto.  But  somehow,  Kuttoer’s  viliaina 
surpass  his  heroes.  The  faun  (Panyr)  is  a master- 
ful character  (falling  down  again  in  comparison  to 
Matholch  the  werewolf). 

But  it  is  Kuttner’s  plots;  the  logical  way  in  which 
he  explains  the  most  fantastic  of  situations.  What 
Merritt  did — unexplained — Kuttner  makes  clear  and 
plausible.  Therefore,  a Kuttner  story  enchants  me  and 
stimulates  me  as  well.  I am  spellbound  from  the  first 
page  to  the  last.  MORE. 

I may  say  in  conclusion,  that  Kuttner  is  noted  for 
his  versatility  in  science-fantasy  such  as  MASK  OF 
CIRCE,  in  pure  fantasy  such  as  CALL  HIM  DEMON, 
in  humor  such  as  his  riotous  Hogbens,  in  science  such 
as  LORD  OF  THE  STORM.  His  detective  story  was 
the  first  “whodunit”  I have  ever  thoroughly  en- 
joyed. And  in  the  field  of  the  long  fantastic  novel,  he 
is  only  doing  what,  if  Merritt  were  alive  today,  he 
would  be  doing.  Kuttner,  far  better  than  Bok,  is  fitted 
to  carry  on  where  Merritt  leaves  off.  For  Merritt,  say 
what  you  may,  was  only  a pioneer. 

The  test  of  a story  for  me  is,  “Will  it  stand  constant 
re-reading?”  THE  DARK  WORLD  has.  I have  read 
it — by  actual  count — ^fifteen  times.  This  contrasted 
with  a record  of  four  times  for  CREEP  SHADOW  and 
three  for  SHIP  OF  ISHTAR.  Many  of  Lovecraft’s 
tales  have  been  read  to  death  by  me;  yet  DARK 
WORLD  has  been  literally  worn  out  (anyone  have 
a copy  to  sell  me?)  and  will  probably  have  many 
more  re-readings.  I foresee  that  MASK  OF  CIRCE 
wlU  join  that  and  LANDS  OF  THE  EARTHQUAKE  and 
VALLEY  OF  THE  FLAME  in  my  drawer  of  favorites. 
Thanks,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  for  printing 
it. 

After  that  long  eulogy  of  Kuttner  and  elegy  of 
Merritt,  the  rest  of  the  issue  must  perforce  have 
brief  treatment.  ’Tis  a pity  too.  THE  HOUSE  OF 
RISING  WINDS  was  the  best  non-Kuttner,  non- 
Hamilton  story  that  you  have  yet  printed.  Who  is 
this  Mr.  Long?  Robert  M.  Williams  of  raE  SEEKERS 
is  another  new  name  to  me,  but  an  excellent  story. 
Cummings;  by  his  own  admission,  this  fellow  hasn’t 
written  a decent  yam  since  1930.  Why  keep  publish- 
ing these  inferior  bits  of  hack?  The  rest  of  the  shorts 
gave  me  a moderately  enjoyable  evening.  The 
novelet  failed  to  interett  me,  hardened  fantast  that 
I am. 

One  very  minor  gripe.  Misprint  or  error?  Jason’s 
tutor  was  not  “Charon”;  Charon  was  the  ferryman 
of  tile  Styx.  The  centaur  who  tutored  Jason  was 
C-h-i-r-o-n.  Remember?  Kuttner,  shame  on  you. 

I neglected  to  write  about  THE  BLUE  FIoAMINGO, 
but  I received  a very  interesting  letter  from  one 
Bradley,  a good  friend  of  mine,  wise  in  all  tilings 
fantastic,  putting  forth  the  theory  that  “Va  khoseth 
yaga”  was  all  he  needed;  he  was  expelled,  but  with 
the  lapse  of  the  time  limit,  he  could  enter,  with  that 
single  passport  Incidentally,  in  what  language  is  that 
meant  to  be?  It  sounds  something  like  Egyptian  or 
Hindu?  And  unlike  Lin  Carter,  I prefer  a “posed” 
cover  to  one  which  blazes  with  action.  Holy  Smoke- 
screens, Lin  is  monopolizing  this  letter. 

Notes  to  those  kind  souls  who  mentioned  me  and 
two  to  those  who  didn’t.  James  T.  White;  I’ll  write 
you  personally.  Thanks  for  calling  my  letter  “mature”. 
Clements  doesn’t  think  so.  Edith  Goldsworthy;  no. 
Please  don’t  have  a sequel  to  the  FLAMINGO.  The 
obvious  is  never  art  Bok  created  a masterpiece  by 
leaving  it  as  it  was.  More  would  be  too  much.  Think 
how  silly  it  would  be  to  relate  the  “sequel”  to  MASK 
OF  CIRCE,  telling  what  happened  to  Jason.  Or  to 
write  about  what  happened  v/hile  Ganelon  and  Arles 
were  ruling  quietly  over  a reformed  Dark  World. 
When  a story  is  done — it  is  finished.  Let  it  rest. 

Jack  Clements.  May  I take  knitting  lessons  from 
you?  I really  can’t  knit.  Neither  do  I embroider,  sew 
or  play  bridge.  I’d  rather  write  letters.  And  I will 
be  very  glad  to  exchange  vitriolic  wisecracks  with  you 
by  private  post;  however,  let’s  keep  our  mutual 
antagonism  OUT  of  the  Ether  Vibrates. 

Carolyn  Duty.  Man  is  a lov/er  type  of  animal.  Look 
at  Clements.  Or  Joe  Kennedy.  Gene  Hyde;  “Astra”  is 
short  for  "Astraftammante”,  the  Queen  of  the  Night 
in  the  fantasy  opera,  THE  MAGIC  FLUTE.  As  a 
would-be  musician  and  fantasticanne.  I adopted  the 
name,  following  the  worthy  lead  of  iigrina,  ^alimar 
and  otiier  fennes.  L.  L.  Shepherd;  in  re  que^on,  YOU 
are  a reverse-lapeled  mutant  if  you  have  to  tear  your 
eyes  away  from  the  cover. 


126  STARUJNG  STORES 


And  now,  believe  it  or  not,  Astra  has  come  to  tiie 
end  of  her  inkwell  and  her  quill.  May  I leave  you 
with  a plea  for  more  fantasy,  more  ^ace-and-lnter- 
planetary  tales,  nK>re  humor  and  less  **gadget”  and 
** surprise  twist”  stories.  And  to  top  ofE  the  ”diiference” 
between  fantasy  and  stef  ‘‘Fantasy  is  the  indefinable 
and  infinite  applied  to  a finite  :%ale;  science  ficti<«x  is 
the  improb^ie  tesKiract  fitted  into  a three- dimensicmM 
lK>le.”~R.r.D.  #2,  East  Greenbush,  N.  Y, 

Could  be,  Marion.  Do  we  detect,  by  read- 
ing between  the  lines,  that  you  liked  and  still 
like  THE  DARK  WORLD?  At  any  rate, 
you’re  certainly  subtle  about  it. 

You’re  so  right  about  the  Charon-Chiron 
controversy,  if  we  remember  our  John  Ken- 
drick Bangs — incidentally,  you  might  enjoy 
his  old  quasi-classic,  HOUSEBOAT  ON  THE 
STYX.  A nice  fantasy  with  dryly  humorous 
overtones. 

You  rate  an  overhung  Bismarck  herring, 
though,  for  not  knowing  Prank  Belknap 
Long.  Mr.  Long  is  one  of  the  old-hands  at 
writing  stf.  He  first  appears  on  our  records 
as  author  of  THE  THOUGHT  MATERIAL- 
IZER  in  the  Spring,  1930,  issue  of  SCIENCE 
WONDER  QUARTERLY,  alas,  now  long 
since  defunct.  And  his  by-line  has  been  dis- 
played in  bold  type  capitals  many,  many 
times  since. 

THOUGHTS  AND  QUERIES 

by  Frank  Evans  Clark 

Dear  Ed:  You  called  for  some  ideas,  discussi(ms  axad 
opinions  in  die  May  issue  of  SS.  Thttrefore.  Tve  been 
wondering  just  to  what  extMit  is  STF  reading  material 
primarily  for  escapists  and  frusixates.  If  you  think 
this  question  shouldn't  be  raised  publicly,  don't 
publish  this  letter.  My  question  arises  from  the  fact 
that  STF  is  so  well  suited  for  such  a purpose  and 
because  it  once  served  as  an  “Escape”  for  me. 

I first  started  reading  and  collecting  STF  when  I 
was  laid  up  siek  in  bed  for  a year  and  thus  couldn’t 
lead  a normal,  healthy  life.  I wonder  how  many 
other  fans  drifted  in  because  of  similar  conditions. 
Either  they  couldn’t  live  as  successfully  and  capably  in 
realily  as  they  would  have  liked  or  else  they  were 
prevented  from  having  a normal  life.  Are  there  many 
such  in  fandom?  In  other  words,  is  it  dissatisfaction 
with  one’s  life  that  leads  to  Mie’s  becoming  an  avid 
fan? 

You  can  certainly  find  many  inklings  of  such  a state 
of  affairs  in  the  field.  STF  is  divorced  from  reality 
to  a greater  extent  than  any  other  kind  of  fiction  and 
is  thus  ideal  for  anyone  who  is  pained  by  reality. 
I remember  one  of  my  most  depressed  moments  re- 
sulted from  reading  of  a guy  and  his  16-year-old  girl 
friend  in  a story  by  Rajr  Bradbury. 

I had  no  way  of  tellmg  then  when,  or  if  ev»,  I 
would  be  well  again  and  be  able  to  get  out  of  bed  and 
at  that  time,  being  15,  knowing  a sweet,  innocent  girl 
of  16  or  thereabouts  was  something  I thought  mi^t 
never  happen  to  me,  so  Bradbury’s  story  made  me 
feel  bad.  A little  thing,  but  it  did  hurt. 

Things  worked  out  fine,  though,  in  case  you’re  in- 
terested, and  I’ve  known  well  several  girls  around 
that  age  (Consecutively,  not  all  at  once).  But, 
back  to  my  point,  Science-fiction  contains  far  less  of 
the  type  of  story  that  will  arouse  such  feelings  fiian 
does  other  fiction.  Therefore,  once  again,  how  much 
of  STF’s  pc^ularity  is  predicated  upon  this  fact? 

Also  many  stories  glorify  science  as  a panacea  for  all 
troubles.  With  science,  you  can  win  the  beautifui 
girl.  If  you  are  a smart  scientist,  you  can  lick  all  the 
assorted  villains  anyone  could  conceive,  plus  BEMs, 
and  incidentally  save  the  Solar  Syst^  or  perhaps. 
If  you’re  especially  lucky,  the  whole  universe  along 


the  way,  while  you’re  aecomplisiilng  the  serious 
business*  whi^  is  winning  me  giri.  Remember 
“Five  Steps  to  Tomorrow"  in  this  very  magazine?  It 
said  nothing  ^se  but  the  above.  Except  the  scientist, 
ergo*  the  reader,  saved  cmly  the  Earth,  if  I r^nember 
correct. 

If  this  isn't  probing  too  deeply  into  private  moti- 
vations. how  about  some  more  on  the  question? 

rd  also  like  to  |^t  in  an  opinion  on  the  STF  vs 
Fantas^  question,  i prefer  fantasy  (More  escape?). 
STF  is,  to  me,  primarily  plot-action  writing  and  I 
much  prefer  moc^'-chai^cterization  fiction  (fiiat  could 
be  an  escape  mechaiiism.  too.  A bad  heart  keeps  me 
from  leading  a basically  active  life).  I think  your 
mags  have  been  slowly  lowering  tiie  eawhasis  on  toe 
action  and  plot  in  favor  of  fantesy-mocw,  fine  writing 
and  good  characterization.  1 believe  toat  is  fcxc  the 
best  and  I hope  the  reactionaries  who  howl  fm:  the 
“pure  science  fiction”  won’t  make  you  diange  your 
present  policy. 

I agree  companscms  are  odious,  as  you  said  m me 
Kuttner-Merritt  controversy,  but  I would  like  to  add 
my  opinion.  I prefer  Kuttner,  vtoen  he’s  at  his  best 
(which  isn’t  always)  because  he  sounds  more  modem 
to  me.  But  that  makes  Merritt  timeless.  whi«h  is  fine, 
too. 

Kuttner,  with  proper  stqjport  and  guidance, 
become  ever  greater  and  more  satisfying  to  his 
readers  and  that,  alas,  cannot  be  said  for  Merritt. 
So  I puts  my  mon^  on  Kuttner.  And  I also  think 
his  series  is  toe  most  clever  thing  seen  to 

STF-cbipedy. 

Lovecf^t— I liked  him  when  he  was  writing  in 
the  Dtinsany  tradition  far  bett«  then  to  his  ‘toorror- 
Cthulhu  Mythos”  mood.  The  stories  I consider  to  be 
in  the  Dunsany  traditkai  include  "Cel^toals,”  my 
favorite  (es^pell),  ‘"The  Silver  Key”,  “Ihe  Outader” 
and  the  like.  They're  g^s.  , ^ 

What  gives  me  a lau^  are  tiiese  people  who'll 
see  about  the  Kuttner-Merritt  deal,  read  one  ^017 
^ boto  and  then  give  expert  optolon  (wi  toe  subj^t. 
Ine  same  with  those  who  read  one  or  two  Loveci^t 
stories  and  do  the  same. 

I've  tiled  to  preface  all  my  remarks  in.  this  letter 
with  “I  tlunk/*  or  its  equivalent,  so  all  the  fans 
who  msey  be  stirred  up  will  jump  on  me  instead  oi 
you.  Pair  plough? — 115  Central  Avenue,  Baldwin, 
New  York. 


Well,  you’ve  stirred  up  a number  of 
thoughts  in  this  editorial  bosom— odd  place 
for  thoughts  come  to  think  of  it.  Naturally 
science  fiction  in  its  purest  “scientific”  or 
fantastic  forms  alike  is  escape. 

What  literature,  save  out  and  out  exposi- 
tion, isn’t? 

Furthermore,  if  such  escape  brings  the 
escapee  added  detachment  with  which  to 
regard  the  actual  globe  and  its  multifarious 
problems,  it  is  a thoroughly  healthy  in- 
fluence. We  agree  emphatically  on  the  Kut- 
tner-Merritt-Lovecraft  has  anybody  here 
seen  Kali?  controversy.  But  if  the  kids  en- 
joy the  squabble,  let  them  go  to  it  Nobody 
ever  died  of  one  like  that. 


PICTURE  REQUEST 

by  Albert  James  Stevenson 


SUBJ;  Virgil  Finley's  Illustration  on  Page  11  of 
Thrillmg  Wonder  Stories  (VoL  XXXn,  No.  2;  June 
1948) 

Dear  Sir:  Is  there  any  way  that  I can  get  a photo- 
graph of  said  Illustration  suitaMe  for  framing?  If 
you  cannot  accommodate  me,  I wonder  If  you  rauld 
suggest  sojne  way  that  I can  get  said  photograph.  I 
would  apf>reciate  any  means  you  could  advise  ipe  of. 

Thank  you  for  your  co(HKration  and  tat  a wothiterful 
magazine. — 130  ScrarOon  Street,  Rochester  5,  Nete 
York. 


THE  ETHER 

Sorry,  but  we  don’t  know  how  you  can  get 
one.  We  only  give  out  originals  on  reire 
occasions  to  benefit  major  fan  organizations, 
otherwise  holding  them  in  our  files.  If  we 
adopted  any  other  policy  we  would  not  long 
have  any  to  file. 

COUNTERJERK 

by  T Sgt.  John  W.  Patch 

Dear  Sir:  Lin  Carter  complains  about  TEV  being 
full  of  . Jerks  all  commenting  on  the  same  stories, 
when  nobody  gives  a dam  what  they  think  . . 
Pardon  me,  Lin,  but  I thought  the  main  pilose  of 
the  readers'  writing  the  Editor  was  to  let  him  know 
what  stories  are  liked  best,  so  he  can  give  us  more 
of  the  same!  At  any  rate,  here’s  my  choice  for  the 
May  SS.  I don’t  care  whether  it’s  printed,  or  not,  but 
1 do  want  the  Editor  to  take  notice. 

I’m  not  a great  lover  of  Kuttner,  but  this  time  he 
did  a good  job  on  “The  Mask  of  Circe”.  Zagat's 
novelet  was  fair — ^nothing  outstanding,  though.  I’m 
not  rating  the  shorts  against  the  longer  stories,  for 
the  longer  always  have  an  unfair  advantage. 

However,  1 will  rate  the  short  stories — G.  O.  Smith's 
“Journey”  was  the  best  of  the  shorts.  There’s  food 
for  thought — hmm.  IF  the  solar  system  IS  moving 
faster  than  light  (with  reference  to — um — you  name 
the  reference  point!),  what  effect  would  that  have? 
Probably  none,  since  the  system  is  out  of  the  field  of 
influence  of  any  star.  Or  is  it? 

Seccmd  best  ^ort  is  William’s  “The  Seekers”.  Third, 
“The  House  of  Rising  Winds”  (Did  Long  take  lessons 
from  Bradbury?).  Tied  for  last  place  are  “The  Simple 
Life”  (too  simple)  and  “After  the  Atcan”.  I’ve  left 
the  HoFer  out  of  the  rating,  for  it’s  not  fair  to  com- 
pare the  “oldies”  with  modem  stories.  1 hope  you 
discontinue  the  HoF  after  you  exhaust  present 
selections. 

My  stars  an’  solar  ^sterns,  Ed.  I didn’t  think  you 
were  a newcomer  to  Stf!  Or  are  you  just  innocent? 
I've  been  a steady  reader  for  only  ten  or  twelve  years, 
and  even  I remember  the  foimding  of  the  SFTPOBEM- 
OTGOSFP,  If  not  exactly  when,  and  by  whom.  Sup- 
pose you’ll  get  a hundred  answers  to  your  question, 
but — it’s  TTie  Society  For  The  Prevention  Of  Bug- 
Eyed  Monsters  On  The  Covers  Of  Science  Fiction 
Publications  I 

Rick  Sneary’s  comments  are  interesting,  but  there 
is  no  exciise  for  such  atrocious  spelling.  Those 
horribly  mutilated  words  throw  the  reader’s  mind  off 
the  track  and  the  meaning  of  his  comments  Is  lost. 
Such  poor  spelling  would  normally  indicate  an  Ig- 
norant, or  an  unintelligent  writer.  But  Sneary— once 
his  meaning  is  sorted  out  of  that  jumbled  mess  of 
alphabet  soup— appears  neither  ignorant  nor  dull. 
Must  be  he’s  just  plain  too  lazy  to  learn  to  spell. — 
Sq.  E,  $11  AF  BU  Eqlin  AFB,  Fla. 


What  has  innocence,  in  any  meaning  of  the 
word,  to  do  with  knowledge  or  lack  of  same 
re  the  SFTPOBEMOTCOSFP?  We  confess 
ourselves  stumped  as  well  as  naif,  dumb,  ig- 
norant, dull  and  incredibly  lazy. 

Only  comment  we  have  to  make  on  the 
possibility  that  the  Solar  System  is  moving 
faster  than  light  is  that,  should  it  be  true, 
a lot  of  fine  theories  are  going  to  kick  the 
bucket,  thereby  annoying  a lot  of  unimagi- 
native theorists  no  end  . . . which  would  be 
sort  of  fun. 

FALLEN  LADY 

by  Frances  Schneider 

Dear  Ed:  I feel  the  scaffold  dropping  from  my  feet 


VTORATES  127 

while  your  angered  fen  shout  in  triumph  at  the  fate 
of  one  who  would  make  such  statements  as  these.  I 
was  reared  with  the  old-fashioned  idea  that  a lady 
never,  never  read  pulp  magazines— consequently  it  was 
only  a year  ago  that  I discovered  your  magazine. 

You  are  doing  a fine  job  of  presenting  to  the  adult, 
who  no  longer  has  the  fairy  tales  and  myths  or 
childhood,  an  imaginative  literature.  The  well-written 
stories  and  the  good  illustrations  which  accompany 
them  (at  times)  are  greatly  appreciated  by  those  of 
us  who  have  long  sought  works  that  were  both  re- 
laxing and  stimulating.  The  insidious  manner  in  which 
themes  of  some  stories  keep  recurring,  forcing  one  to 
consider  their  possibilities,  makes  them  fascinating 
beyond  the  pleasure  received  from  reading  them. 

Mr.  Mulcahy  may  be  bored  with  story  analysis  in 
the  letter  column,  but  such  analysis  is  mvaluable  to 
the  new  reader  in  showing  him  which  plots  are 
hackneyed  and  whi^  authors  may  be  expected  to  turn 
out  go^  stories. — Cincinnati  19,  Ohio. 


We  are  grateful  to  your  fall  from  pulpless 
grace,  Frances,  as  for  the  above  letter  which 
resulted  from  it.  And  your  second-paragraph 
flattery  tempts  us  sorely  to  suggest  that 
henceforth  no  letters  will  be  printed  which  do 
not  refer  to  our  stories  as  “literature.”  But 
on  second  thoughts  we  fear  the  letter  portion 
of  the  column  would  vanish  overnight. 

Literature,  yet — maybe  the  kind  you  pick 
up  on  hotel  desks  or  grocery  counters.  But 
stay  with  us,  Frances,  and  write  us  again. 
You  have  something  in  your  views. 

BACK  AGAIN— TWOFOLD 

by  Robyn  leRoy 

Der  Ed;  leRoy  Iz  baki  Ane  remaning  to  red  after 
that  anounsment  wil  pl&e  be  sited.  Hav  ben  just  tu 
bize  tu  ryt  latle,  but  hav  kept  up  with  SS  and  TWS  as 
ordinariie.  Lyk  kontinud  Impruvment  in  editorials 
presiding  TEV. 

Wun?  how  mani  fen  who  so  thorole  anaJyz  storiz 
(plot  styl,  katakterz  etc.)  also  luk  them  ovr  with 
regard  tu  sykologikal  kontent?  And  tu  go  a step 
farther,  noting  hwich  element  uv  hwich  store  had 
gratest  irapakt  on  the  individual  ridr,  wun  aryvz  at 
vere  interesting  points  uv  understanding  uv  self,  or 
uv  redr  huz  komentz  ar  in  kwestium. 

Ur  fan-org-list  iz  a plezing  prospect  In  hwich 
kunekshun  ma  Y ad  my  vois  tO  that  uv  Mulcahy 
anent  hiz  suggestiun? 

Sa,  Ed,  Y want  tu  thank  u for  a nys  koment  on 
“Ecitm”.  with  hwich  Y hav  no  kunekshun  eksept  my 
frendshlp  with  McDaniel. — 5521  Euclid  Avenue,  Cleve- 
land, Ohio. 

Dear  Ed:  A sekund  episl  for  this  raunth  yet!!  Had 
alrede  riten  the  uther,  then  red  Kuttner’z  MASK  OF 
CIRCE.  leRoy  iz  now  kunverted,  haz  sen  the  lyt,  and 
agrez  Kuttner’z  gratlll  Y espeshali  lykt  hiz  irever«it 
jtretment  uv  the  Godz.  Noted  that  hiz  handling  uv  the 
ineksplikabl  waz  a bit  fyner  than  the  aw-striken 
Merritt  but  with  the  sam  konsumat  artistre  and  polish. 

Y du  wii^  Hank  had  ended  hiz  opus  with  the  lyn  on 
p5g  60,  “It  was  very  dark  here  among  the  trees.  And 
he  was  alone.  . . Soundz  mor  efektiv  tu  me.  Ask 
Hank  tu  tern  out  mor  uv  the  sam,  wil  u? — 5521  Euclid 
Avenue,  Clet^eland,  Ohio. 


We’re  glad,  glad,  that  you  liked  CIRCE — 
also  the  list  of  fan  organizations.  As  for  the 
Kuttnerending,  that’s  a matter  of  opinion. 

INNERMOST  THOUGHTS? 

by  P.  J.  Ridley 

My  Dear  Chappie:  Having  just  received  my  ccfljy  of 


128  STABTUNG  STORIES 


the  May  “ish”  of  SS,  I raise  my  scriber  to  acqualirt 
you  with  my  innermost  thoughts.  Well,  here  goes — 

Cover — symbolic  or  factual?  Bergey’s  females  al- 
ways look  like  statues  to  me. 

“The  Mask  of  Circe” — struck  this  humble  reader 
as  being  pure  fantasy  thinly  disguised  as  science 
ftcti(Hi.  Nevertheless  I enjoyed  it. 

“No  Escape  from  Destiny” — pretty  good.  Had  me 
guessing. 

'*The  Simple  Life” — didn’t  strike  the  gong  for  me, 
nor  did  “Journey”,  “Microscopic  Giants”  nor  “After  the 
Atom.”  Don’t  ask  me  why,  maybe  I’m  psychic. 

“The  House  of  Rising  Winds”  was,  I tmiik,  the  best 
^ort  of  this  issue.  FBL  certainly  created  an  atmos- 
phere of  apprehension. 

“The  Seekers” — ^very  good.  Illustration  excellent, 
VF,  take  a bow. 

TEV — a lot  of  the  gab  is  over  the  head  of  a 
comparative  newcomer  to  stf.  My  heart  bleeds  for 
George  Andrews  (see  page  12S).  Question — what  is 
my  life  expectation  if  I confess  I don’t  care  for  W^n- 
baum?  Please,  no  bombs  through  tite  post,  the  practice 
ts  frowned  upon  by  the  authorities. 

Re  Sneary — I have  yet  to  see  an  editor  whom  I 
would  address  as  “Dream-Boat”  (no  offence,  Ed.) . 

Here’s  hoping  Bergey’s  femmes  come  to  life  in 
(on?)  the  next  issue. — 268  Well  Hall  Road,  Eltham, 
lAmdon,  S.E.9,  England. 


On  the  whole  (sight  unseen  and  let’s  keep 
it  that  way)  we  prefer  being  addressed  as 
“Dream  Boat”  to  “My  Dear  Chappie.”  But 
let  it  pass.  Your  requesting  Virgil  Finlay  to 
take  a bow  for  his  illustration  to  THE 
SEEKERS  was  a nice  thought — especially  as 
Vem  Stevens  did  the  drawing  in  question. 
You’re  more  apt  to  be  picketed  than  bombed 
for  that  one. 

HARVARDIANA 

by  Henry  M.  Spelman  III 

Dear  Editor:  I just  finished  the  lat^t  SS.  And 
then  w«it  to  bed.  Bus  I couldn’t  sleep.  I just  lay 
there  and  thought.  Gee,  if  I don't  write  him  now, 
maybe  I’ll  never  get  around  to  it.  But  who’d  care? 
Well,  it  serves  ’em  right  I’ll  do  it.  So  at  0031  I start 
off  on  this  mad  venture. 

A bit  on  the  subject  of  mad  . . . when  I opened 
my  copy  of  the  November  ish,  I burned.  SPARX  on 
the  B list.  I was  ready  to  jump  down  a certain 
throat.  But  Dave  Thomas  held  me  back.  “After  all,” 
he  said,  “mistakes  will  happen  . . .”  It  was  only 
about  two  months  later  that  I was  saying  the  same 
things  to  him.  We  were  both  aiming  for  the  same 
throat.  It  was  only  an  Alphonse  and  Gaston  act  that 
saved  you  for  the  time. 

And  now  you  are  saved.  SPARX  made  the  A list. 
Or  should  I qualify  the  last  statement.  You  are  saved 
until  I see  what  sort  of  treatment  #6  got.  I cannot 
speak  for  Dave.  But  I hope  he’ll  let  you  live  imtil 
you  report  <mi  KLUGG.  I hope  you  can  take  a hint  . . . 

Now  to  tear  the  May  ish  apart.  Oh,  what  fun  this 
will  be!!! 

Mask  of  Circe  . . . Hank  Kuttner  at  his  best. 
Seriously,  I don’t  think  that  this  story  quite  has  it. 
It  misses  fire,  somehow.  It  doesn’t  send  me. 

The  Simple  Life  - . . Science  is  all  right.  And  the 
Idea  is  fine.  But  it  reads  as  though  some  high  school 
freeman  had  written  it.  Ray  could  have  done  a far 
better  technical  job  on  the  yam. 

The  House  of  Rising  Winds  is  good.  The  ending 
Is  telegraphed,  but  in  spite  of  that  fact,  the  story  is 
outstanding.  And  I like  the  job  Finlay  did  for  it. 
It  almost  approaches  the  work  of  Cartier. 

No  Escape  from  Destiny  ...  A bit  confusing  in 
places,  but  mi  ^e  whole  rather  satisfactory.  It  kept 
me  guessing  all  along. 

The  Seekers  has  been  done  before.  But  this  treat- 
ment is  all  right.  The  only  thing  that  I do  not  like 
Is  that,  knowing  Earth  psychology  as  I think  I do,  we 
would  promptly  return  with  an  A-bomb  or  two  and 
wipe  out  the  planet.  But  whosis’  words  under  teleket 
are  all  too  true.  Even  here  and  now  too  many  men 
are  all  wrax>ped  up  in  science  for  its  own  sake,  with 


no  recognition  of  what  ^ going  on  outside  the  lab. 

I suppose  t^t  Smith,  bought  a few  loaves  at  bread 
with  Journey.  I certainly  think,  though,  that  it  was 
charity  on  the  part  of  the  editor.  Nothing  new  but  the 
action.  And  that  all  too  trite  when  used  in  con- 
junction with  o'^er  plots  and  lienees. 

Ernst’s  little  piece  is  OK.  A few  very  nice  and  con- 
vincing points  One  of  the  best  HoF*s  that  I’ve  seMi 
yet.  A few  such  as  this  will  almost  make  life  worth 
living.  Very  pleasing. 

Before  Mitering  the  lists  with  the  other  fen,  I would 
like  to  say  that,  in  spite  of  the  above  snide  remarks, 
you  do  put  out  a couple  of  very  worthwhile  mags. 
My  only  complaint  is  ^at  they  do  not  come  out  often 
enough. 

Now,  ugh,  the  lettere,  Sgt  Lane  complains  about 
putting  a bit  of  fantasy  in  an  stf  mag.  But  where  else 
could  it  go?  And  certainly  The  Blue  Pagoda  is  too 
good  not  to  publish.  Even  if  only  the  first  part  gets 
written. 

Zooks!  And  all  sorts  of  little  gizmochos.  Don’t  you 
know  what  SFTPOBEMOTCOFP  means?  Tsk,  tsk. 
I think  is  goes  something  like  societyfortheprevMition 
ofbugeyedmonster^nthecoversofstfpublications.  (Now 
for  about  65  deep  breaths.)  May  I sympathize  with 
van  Couvering,  and  wish  him  the  luck  I got. 

Dear  Miss  Bullock,  I think  you  are  all  wet  about 
HPL  and  Merritt.  And,  while  on  the  subject  why  try 
to  compare  HPL  and  Merritt?  ’Hiere  is  little  in  the 
writings  of  either  that  can  be  said  to  compare  with 
the  other.  Each  was  very  near  the  top  in  his  field  in 
certain  stories  and  near  the  bottom  in  others.  But 
they  were  both  consistently  good.  And  I guess  that's 
enough  of  that. 

Foi^ot  to  mention  Feam’s  little  epic.  Bah!  There 
ain't  enough  free  hydrogen  to  aid  at  all  in  ttie 
formation,  of  a hydrosphere.  So  there! 

Berg^  Is  slipping  a bit,  I think.  I don’t  think  that 
the  latest  heroine  is  near  as  purty  as  the  last. — 
Leverett  House  E-21,  Cambridge  38,  Masmekusetts. 


How  didactic  can  you  get,  bub?  You 
didn’t  leave  us  anything  to  answer. 

DO  COME  IN! 

by  Ronald  Berner 

Dear  Ed:  May  I come  in  and  establish  an  under- 
standing? 'Thanks,  knew  you  would  see  it  my  way. 

Have  been  reading  the  oh-so-meny  TEV  for  some 
time  and  I think  it’s  o.k.,  WITH  toe  exception  of 
(look  out)  Wigodsky.  How  did  he  ever  get  in  here? 

Attention,  Joe  Kirschnick — Where  do  you  get  your 
opium?  Merritt  better  than  Lovecraft?  With  tears  of 
rage  in  my  eyes  and  a lump  in  my  throat,  I say 
“phui.”  Merritt  I do  enjoy  but  for  real  chills  it's 
H.  P.  L.  all  the  way. 

Virg.  Finlay  hurray.  The  man  is  superb.  Speaking 
of  toe  art  dept.  THAT  cover  #%”#ugh! 

Stories.  Hm.  Well  let’s  look  at  The  Hoiee  of 
Rising  Winds  first.  That  great  big  beautiful  Long 
man.  Shades  of  Bierce,  what  a writer.  He  sure  rang 
the  bell. 

The  Seekers  may  not  be  a ^i>icai  Moore  plot  but 
I have  always  liked  toe  guy.  He  can  do  no  wrong. 
Cute  is  what  I would  label  this  one. 

After  the  Atom.  NO,  NO,  NO!  It  just  wont  do. 

Journey.  Not  much  action  and  not  much  thinking 
material  until  toe  last  couple  of  paragraphs. 

Simple  Life — simple  story.  C’mon,  ^y,  you  can 
and  have  done  a whale  of  a lot  better  than  toat 
That  was  just  a product  of  an  off  day,  wasn't  it?  One 
thing  about  R.  C. — he  always  redeems  himself. 

No  Escape  From  Destiny.  A bow  to  Mr.  Zagat.  A 
really  original  stf  whodunit.  Make  it  another  bow. 

As  for  The  Mask  of  Circe  well  I think  Vernon 
Hodges  has  Kuttner  pegged  about  right.  This  issue’s 
tale  wasn’t  too  bad  but  nothing  I would  care  to  read 
again. 

Oh  yes: 

Schaumburger’s  cute 
A little  all  root 
He  blows  his  whistle 
With  a right  smart  toot. 

Don't  you  think 
Fond  Ed.  of  mine 
He  can  circles  run  round  you 
Most  anytime? 

I dare  you  to  print  that. — 166  Maple  Street,  Bristol^ 
Connecticut 


129' 


THE  ETHER  VIBRATES 

JUNIOR  MISSES 

by  Jeanette  Marie  Thomas 


All  right,  Ron, 

You’re  really  gone. 

But  if  Schaumbere 
Is  quite  so  square 
He’d  run  in  arcs 
Around  our  ceircass 
Well,  who  are  we 
To  say  him  nee? 

MORE  LIKE  MACHETE 

by  C.  A.  Metchette 

Dear  Ed:  I would  like  to  air  some  personal  opinions 
and  observations  upon  the  Kuttner-Merritt  contro- 
versy that  is  now  raging.  I will  concentrate  on 
Kuttner.  To  wit:  YOU  can  have  them  both!  Free! 

I don't  adore  Kuttner  and  I don’t  particularly 
worship  Merritt;  suffice  to  say  I read  both,  but  not 
for  stf,  only  for  fantasy.  Kuttner  rides  high,  wide 
and  handsome  on  that  borderline  between  science 
fiction  and  legitimate  fantasy.  His  recent  novel.  Mask 
of  Circe,  is  typical  of  this  condition:  1.  Fanta^  be- 
cause the  method  of  Seward's  return  Is  unexplained, 
2.  STF  because  of  the  explanation  of  the  electronic 
properties  of  the  Fleece  and  the  explanati<Hi  of  the 
gods.  However  Kuttner  does  -write  stf:  witness  his 
Hogbens,  which,  Fitzgerald,  he  does  better  and  more 
interestingly. 

I don’t  like  Kuttner  in  his  sd-fantasy  moods.  I 
couldn’t  read  “Earthquakes”  or  “Power  & Glory”;  but 
I did  read  and  enjoy  “I  Am  Eden”  & “Mask  of  Circe”. 
Why?  In  Eden,  the  scene  is  laid  in  Amazonia,  and 
somehow,  the  whole  adventure  is  made  more  plausible 
because  it  hinges  on  the  cause  and  effect  of  radium 
radiation  upon  genes  and  chromosomes.  In  Circe, 
except  Seward’s  recall,  the  explanations  are  based  on 
the  known  or  extrapolated,  behaviour  of  electronic 
phenomena  and  furthermore,  the  civilization  of  the 
gods  could  have  existed. 

The  latter  two  tales  were  better  written  and  appealed 
stfly  to  me.  while  the  former  two  were  unpalatable. 
I must  mention  that  I have  not  read  Sword  of  To- 
morrow or  Dark  World,  but  I hope  to  remedy  that 
soon.  Maybe  these  two  tales  will  be  of  the  interest 
of  Circe. 

I claim  that  Mr.  Kuttner  is  a psychologist,  besides 
being  an  author  of  stf-fan.  In  all  his  tales  there  is  the 
undercurrent  of  human  understanding,  and  to  make 
such  a statement  requires  oroof.  A weak  proof  is 
Kuttner’s  familiarity  with  the  nomenclature  of  psy- 
chiatry which  could  have  been  gained  by  post- 
graduation  courses.  More  conclusive:  1.  His  psy- 
riiiatric  comprehension  of  Seward’s  and  Jason’s  re- 
action at  sharing  a double  mind.  2.  In  “FURY”,  his 
skillful  treatment  of  Sam’s  predicament  and  his 
solution  of  It  3.  “Piper’s  Son”  and  others:  his  un- 
derstanding and  explanation  of  the  motives  that 
drove  homo  sapiens  to  persecute  a mutant  race  of 
telepaths. 

As  for  Merritt  I am  just  finishing  Ship  of  Ishtar 
and  I honestly  believe  that  Kuttner  coiild  not  top 
ttiis  tale,  but  the  same  Kuttner  can,  and  does,  write 
an  extremely  interesting  story  and  be  diplomatic 
enough  to  Include  elements  of  both  stf  and  fantasy, 
enou^  to  satisfy  both  camps  of  Imaginative  literateurs, 
and  to  be  the  anguish  of  pure  as  well  as  pure 

fantasts. 

Let  Kuttner  write  more  tales  of  Circe  interest  and 
continue  to  blossom  out  under  various  alter-egos;  but 
beware!  More  of  his  Power  & Glory  bo^  and  this 
reader  shall  condemn  him  before  a judge  and  jury 
composed  of  Hammond,  Padgett,  Hasting,  O’Donnell, 
Kent.  Garth  and  Edmonds;  not  to  forget  CL  Moore. 
— 3557  King  Street,  Windsor,  Ontario. 

Well,  we  hope  you  find  his  soon-to-be- 
forthcoming (January,  1949,  SS)  THE  TIME 
AXIS  among  the  long  Kuttnernovels  you  go 
for,  Herr  Metchette.  And  what  about  Keith 
Hammond’s  VALLEY  OF  THE  FLAME,  pub- 
lished in  this  magazine  some  time  ago? 


Dear  Editor:  I am  sincerely  interested  in  science 
fiction.  I read  all  the  prozines  I can  buy,  beg  or 
borrow  for  love  or  money.  I belong  to  the  PSFS 
(Philadelj^a,  not  Portland)  and  subscribe  to  its 
fanzine,  the  “Varient”. 

From  what  I’ve  seen  of  the  club  and  of  the  other 
fen  present  at  the  Philcon,  it  appears  that  there  are 
all  too  few  teen-age  members  of  organized  fandom. 
There  are  all  types  of  stf  clubs,  rainging  from  those 
devoted  to  pure  fantasy,  to  pure  science — but  as  far 
as  I know  there  is  as  yet  none  for  teenage  stf  fen. 

I would  like  to  organize  such  a club.  It  may  be 
either  a club  tliat  holds  actual  meetings,  a corres- 
pondence club  or  both.  The  age  limit  would  be  from 
as  young  as  an  interest  develops  for  stf  to  twenty 
years  of  age,  at  which  time  other  clubs  seem  to  take 
over. 

The  purpose  would  be  to  stimulate,  develop  and 
further  the  interest  and  conceptions  of  stf  among 
teen-agers.  The  dues  would  be  five  cents  monthly 
and,  as  soon  as  I get  about  five  members  who  win 
contribute  scwne  material,  I shall  try  to  get  out  some 
sort  of  a club  fanzine  if  I have  to  type  it  myself.  I 
promise  faithfully  to  answer  any  and  all  letters  I 
receive. 

I shall  be  grateful  for  any  information  or  ideas 
which  any  of  the  older  fen  would  be  good  enough  to 
give  me. — 2648  North  Franklin  Street,  Philadelphia  33, 
Phineylvania. 


You  seem  to  have  a sound  idea  there,  since 
there  is  a gulf — all  too  often — between  the 
interests  of  younger  and  older  fans.  But 
perhaps,  instead  of  doing  it  alone,  your 
missive  might  persuade  the  parent  PSFS  to 
form  a junior  auxiliary,  to  be  kept  alive  by 
you  yoimgsters  successively  as  new  boys  and 
girls  fall  into  stf  activity.  Then  you’ll  have 
an  assured  spot  to  graduate  into  on  reaching 
the  predetermined  age  and  have  a larger 
organization  with  which  to  share  club  acti- 
vities. 

Good  luck,  whatever  road  you  travel  with 
your  sound  idea. 

VIVE  LE  HALL  OF  FAME! 

by  E.  Jordan 

Dear  Ed:  I am  distressed  lo  read  in  the  March  issue 
that  the  question  of  demolishing  the  Hall  of  Fame 
has  been  introduced.  It  is  always  the  first  thing  I 
look  for,  so  please  record  my  vote  in  favor  of  kee^ng 
it  intact. 

It  is  surprising  that  so  many  readers  disapproved  of 
the  Purple  Cloud  story.  It  has  remained  in  my  memory 
as  one  of  the  best  from  the  early  days,  while  I have 
forgotten  hundreds  published  more  recently. 

I am  very  glad  to  be  receiving  your  magazines 
regularly.  To  be  without  them  was  one  of  the 
principal  hard^ips  of  the  war  years.  Carry  on,  sir, 
you’re  doing  fine! — 49  Lucien  Road,  London,  S.W.  17, 
England. 


Relax,  E.  Jordan,  the  good  old  HoF  will  he 
around  for  some  time  to  come.  Thanks  for 
the  nice  remarks  anent  us  generally. 

SFTPOBEMOTCOSFP  AGAIN 

by  Les  & Es  Cole 

Dear  Sir;  You  need  not  confine  the  SFTPOBEMOTC* 


130  STARTLING  STORIES 


OSFP  to  your  private  files — just  become  a member  and 

it  influence  your  covers!  As  you  requested,  we  now 
expand  it  to  The  Society  For  The  Prevention  Of  Bug- 
Eyed  Monsters  On  The  Covers  Of  Science  Fiction 
Publications.  And  don’t  say  you  didn't  stick  your 
neck  out;  we  were  hoping  you’d  fall  into  that  one  I 

Hey!  We  demand  a retraction!  We  gave  the  formu- 
la expressing  a tesseract  as  V equals  a*.  You  printed 
it  as  V minus  a^  which  is  ridiculous. 

Good,  we’ve  a start  towards  defining  “science- 
fiction”  and  “fantasy”.  Only  Paul  (not  Carl  H.) 
Anderson's  def  was  a little  too  restrictive.  For  Instance, 
Paul,  take  the  exani^le  of  the  Buck  Rogers  series. 
Therein  was  first  described  a light  infantry  weapon 
with  a terrific  sock.  Its  projectiles  were  rocket- 
powered.  According  to  your  definition  that  was  fantasy. 
Some  twenty  years  later  the  U,  S.  Army  created  the 
“ba2ooka”  and  the  story  becomes  science-fiction. 

Waal,  it's  all  right,  we  suppose,  but  a lot  of  maga- 
zines are  going  to  be  printing  pure  fantasy  if  we 
adopt  your  definition.  How  does  this  sound  to  you? 
“^ience-fiction”  is  ihe  logical  projection  of  scientific 
endeavor  into  imagined,  although  possible  or  even 
probable,  situations.  Defining  “fantasy”  would  be  a 
lot  more  rugged  and  we  don’t  intend  to  try  that  just 
yet. 

Our  special  advice  to  die  lonely  hearts  column: 
Achtung  Bill  Groover!  Les  says,  “Marry  the  gal, 
feller,  marry  the  gal.  Women  have  a natural  tendency 
to  know  that  their  husbands  can  do  no  wrong — ^die 
first  week  of  married  life!  If  you  marry  her  ^e'll 
read  science-fiction  jvist  so  can  compete  with  the 
rest  of  the  gals  on  the  block!” 

Es  says,  “Perhaps  she  isn’t  interested  in  disciassing 
science-fiction  at  night.”  Bein’  as  how  the  better  half 
is  a woman.  Bill,  she  might  have  the  ri^t  scoop  there! 

On  the  whole  TEV  was  not  so  hot  this  issue.  John 
Van  Couvering  probably  had  the  best  letter,  (yes,  we 
blush  to  admit  it  was  better  than  our  efforts)  but  die 
whole  tone  of  the  thing  was  decidedly  underparish. 
And  why  in  the  name  of  the  geologist’s  god  Tafr  do 
we  have  to  have  so  much  mud-slinging?  Do  all  fans 
suffer  that  much  from  insecurity? 

As  usual,  the  shorts  take  top  honors.  Can’t  quite 
decide  which  was  best,  but  they  were  all  superior  to 
the  novelet  and  novel. 

Re  “Microscopic  Giants",  the  male  half  of  the 
glowing  Coles,  speaking  as  a geologist,  would  give 
his  left  ear-lobe  to  see  a mine  at  a forty-thousand 
foot  level.  It’s  entirely  possible  those  boys  were 
cutting  through  rock  which  formed  the  original 
earth’s  crust — and  that  I'd  like  to  see! 

“The  Mask  of  Circe”  was  not  science-fiction.  We’re 
building  up  a terrific  resistance  to  old  Hank  Kuttner. 
We  us^  to  like  the  guy,  but  with  all  the  hullabaloo 
we’ve  done  an  about-face. — 2903  Grove  Street,  Berkeley 
3,  California. 

Okay,  okay,  so  we  bit  in  our  innocence. 
But  we  still  like  Kuttner  and  occasional 
mud-slinging  and  the  way  we  printed  your 
formula. 

FEMMEFEN 

by  Linda  Bowles 

Dear  Editor:  I slowly,  unbelievingly,  count  the 
number  of  femme  letters  and  when  I make  sure  I’m 
not  dreaming  I quietly  faint.  After  a considerable 
lapse  of  time  I pick  my  trembling  body  from  the  floor 
and  look  again.  It’s  true!  We  girls  were  really  out  in 
force  this  ish.  Bless  your  heart,  Ed.,  I could  kiss  you 
for  that!  (well,  we’re  waiting — Ed.)  I wonder  how 
our  woman-hater.  Jack  Clements,  will  bear  up  under 
the  barrage. 

“Knit  one,  purl  two.”  Hmmph!  Jackie-boy,  dcm’t 
you  know  that  the  days  when  a woman  sat  at  home 
and  did  that  are  gone  forever?  Today,  this  is  just  as 
much  a woman’s  world  as  it  is  a man’s.  What  do  the 
rest  of  you  girls  think? 

I can’t  fir^  too  mudi  to  gripe  about  this  issue,  but 
since  I’m  sprouting  my  motheaten  wings  for  a try  at 
active  fandom,  I may  as  well  dig  up  sfomething  to  y^ 
about  like  the  rest. 

Bergey’s  cover  was  awful  again — but  then  it  usually 
is.  I just  looove  the  way  his  colors  clash.  That  eye  and 
that  sickly  yellow!  Yipe!  Well,  Berg,  ole  man,  try 
again  next  ish.  What  AM  I saying?. 

Finlay’s  artwork  was  wonderful — but  look  who  he 
is — the  almighty  Finlay.  Looove  that  man.  The  HoF 


was  poor  this  time.  D<m’t  know  why,  but  I Just  didn’t 
like  it.  On  the  whole  I hate  whodunits^but  NO 
ESCAPE  FROM  DESTH^Y  was  a f«urly  interesting 
yam. 

THE  MASK  OF  CIRCE  was  very  good,  even  though 
it  was  an  overgrown  fai^  tale.  I enjoyed  it  very 
much.  The  r^t  of  the  stories  were  good — no  comment. 

Now  for  the  best  section  of  ail — I missed  Wigodsky 
(the  little  horror)  this  issue,  not  because  of  his 
rambling  gibberish  but  ’cause  X grow  accustomed  to 
seeing  certain  names  appear  each  i^.  If  he  can  do  it, 
so  can  I. 

Eadie  Smith  asked  a question  that  has  puzzled  me. 
What  is  a John  Van  Couvering?  If  you  get  an  answer. 
Eadie,  let  me  know.  Does  George  Andrews  by  any 
chance  eat  dog  biscuits.  His  poetry  gives  one  that 
impression. — 931  North  Jackson,  Topeka,  Kansas. 


And  let’s  cut  out  this  long  distance  kissing, 
Linda.  Closer  or  not  at  all! 

DIFFERENT— BUT  HOW? 

by  Lynn  H.  Benham 

Dear  Sir:  If  you're  observing,  you’ve  notice  tiiat 
yours  truly  hasn’t  written  a fan  letter  in  quite  some 
time,  but  I felt  that  comment  on  the  May  issue  was 
virtually  a duty.  Ordinarily  I don't  care  too  much 
for  fantasy,  but  the  one  by  Kuttner  seans  to  b« 
“differ«it”  some  way.  Maybe  it’s  just  the  Kuttner 
genius  at  work  but,  whatever  it  is,  The  Mask  of  Circe 
is  an  excellent  story. 

It  is  cme  of  those  that,  wh^  started,  is  read 
through  to  the  end  before  laying  down  toe  book.  Any 
fanta^  story  that  commands  MY  attentom  so  strongly 
MUST  be  good,  for  I consider  myself  to  be  very 
critical,  and  don’t  take  just  anything  in  toe  way  of 
composition  that  is  pushed  at  me. 

Williams  and  Smith  (in  my  (pinion)  wrote  the  two 
best  shorts,  and  I kinda  liked  the  idea  used  in  the 
novelet,  but  I don’t  know  how  to  rate  toe  feature 
story.  About  all  that  can  be  said  is  that  It  was  very 
good,  without  going  into  raves  over  it 

Incidentally,  congratulations  on  toe  larger  size — 
I hope  this  im't  a way  of  raising  the  price  and  that 
after  a few  issues  you  will  go  back  to  toe  old  size. 
But,  I guess  inflation  hits  everything  alike,  with  no 
preferences. 

The  main  reason  for  my  not  parti cipaftng  in  the 
fan-fest  (consisting,  it  seems,  mostly  of  rather  inane 
feuds),  is  that  I’ve  been  rather  busy,  and  didn’t  have 
time  to  write,  altoough  keeping  up  on  toe  issues  as 
toey  come. 

Another  thing,  I notice  that  there  aren’t  very 
many  Chicagoans  with  their  gripes  and  otoerwlse  in 
the  reader’s  columns.  Is  this  because  they  are  all  in 
a daze  and  don’t  know  what  is  happening,  or  are  toey 
just  merely  taking  in  everything  with  no  comment? 
I’d  like  to  know.  'Ilie  idea  of  a fan  club  seems  a little 
top-heavy,  but  Fd  like  to  teiow  why  it  is  that  99^ 
of  the  people  that  know  about  scientific  flctlcm  say 
that  it  is  silly,  trash,  and  other  synonyms  to  wit. 
Keep  up  the  good  work. — 6144  Dorchester,  Chicago  37. 


Have  you  been  conducting  a poll  to  get  the 
99%,  chum?  And  how  do  you  know  those 
queried  know  anything  about  il  Is  the  name 
Gallup — or  Kinsey? 

At  any  rate,  our  second  upping  in  size 
within  six  months  should  put  your  expressed 
fears  re  our  inflation  policy  to  rest. 

OFF  WITH  HIS  HEAD! 

by  Marion  Miller 

Sir:  I’ve  never  written  before  but  sometimes  I’ve 
been  mad  enough  and  pleased  enough  to  do  so.  Now 
I see  I must.  If  anyone  tries  to  compare  with  Merritt, 
off  with  his  head — it  is  impossible. 

If  yon  OT  any  of  your  readers  can  tell  me  a way 
to  obtain  ‘‘The  Fox  Woman”  and  inform  me  if  Merritt 


131 


THE  ETHm 

ev«r  wrote  a sequel  to  "The  Moon  Pool",  I’d  appreciate 
it,  I Mve  all  except  the  above. 

I «ijoy  SS  very  much  and  think  it  is  improving — 
how  I don't  know,  but  it  sure  does  read  better.— 
2311  Reed  Avenite,  San  Diego  9,  California. 


“The  Fox  Woman”,  begun  by  Merritt  and 
completed  by  Hannes  Bok,  w£is  published  by 
the  New  Collectors  Group  of  New  York  (see 
the  Science  Fiction  Book  Review  in  this 
issue),  as  was  the  more  recent  “The  Black 
Wheel”  by  the  same  authors.  You  can  obtain 
needed  information  by  writing  in  for  a copy 
of  the  Fantasy  Review,  whose  address  and 
price  is  listed  in  the  current  review  of 
Science  Fiction  Amateur  Pubhcations.  To 
the  best  of  our  knowle4ge  Merritt  did  not 
write  a sequel  to  “The  Moon  Pool.” 

BETTER  LATE  . . .? 

by  Franklin  M.  Dietz  Jr. 

Dear  Editor:  Very  late  with  my  letter  to  you  for 
the  i>ast  issue^  but,  though  very  late.  I’m  writing  any- 
way, The  reason  is,  of  course,  that  I had  the  first 
of  my  fanzine  to  get  ready  for  the  printers.  And 
when  getting  an  issue  a fanzine  out,  one  just  doesn’t 
have  time  for  reading  or  letter  writing. 

Ihere  has  been  much  discussion  erf  late  on  the  topic 
of  what  is  fantasy  and  what  is  STF.  From  the  letters 
in  the  May  i^  of  SS,  it  seems  that  quite  a lot  of 
people  are  all  mixed  up,  FANTASY  actually  embraces 
all  futuristic  and  supernatural  stories  (except  weird 
and  horror). 

But,  in  “^e  present  day,  those  fantasy  stories  which 
are  scientific  (STF)  in  nature  are  called  science 
fiction,  and  the  rest  (for  want  of  a better  description 
I’ll  call  them  mature  Fairy  tales),  die  rest  are  called 
fantasy  stories.  As  before  indicated,  I am  not  in- 
cluding weird  or  horror  stcuries  in  this  discussiwi. 

Anotiier  topic  which  r^uires  discussion,  I think,  is 
your  coming  ‘fan-organization  re^stration’  depart- 
ment This  IS  a very  good  idea,  even  th<Hi^  already 
in  another  STF  magazine.  BUT  I think  that  just  fan- 
club  registration  won’t  make  a department  worth  a 
dam.  Nothing  to  it!  Now,  if  you  took  Dan  Mulcahy’s 
idea,  as  giv^  in  The  Ether  '\^rat€ss,  and  incorporated 
it  widi  the  Fan-club  registration  department,  then 
you  would  have  a real  department,  interesting  and 
infOTmative  both. 

But  now  you  say  where  are  we  going  to,  and  how 
are  we  going  to  get  the  fans  interested  in  writing  a 
letter  alrout  their  organization.  Well,  from  my  con- 
tacts in  fandom,  and  my  own  fanning,  I believe  that 
most  fans  would  be  more  than  willing  to  write  a letter 
telling  all  about  their  clubs.  AH  that  would  be  neces- 
sary would  be  for  you  to  tell  us  that  you  desire  such 
letters. 

So,  I guess  that’s  all  I have  to  say  for  now.  See 
you  next  issue. — Box  A — Employee,  Kings  Park,  L.  I., 
New  York. 


As  you  may  have  gathered  by  this  time, 
Franklin,  we  are  not  making  a separate  de- 
partment of  our  fan  organization  registration 
— never  intended  to,  in  fact.  And  the  lads 
and  leddies  are  writing  in  as  you  believed 
they  would. 

Re  fantasy  versus  stf— the  crux  of  the 
puzzle  seems  to  be  that  they  do  overlap,  or 
rather  that  stf  is  a sector  of  fantasy.  An 
attempt  by  the  author  at  some  sort  of  quasi- 
logicai  explanation  seems  to  us  to  be  the 
badge  of  science  fiction  as  distinct  from 
other  branches  of  fantasy. 


VIBRATES 

MAJOR  AND  TWO  MINORS 

by  Rosco  Wright 

Dear  Editor:  In  reply  to  your  query  in  the  May 
Ethergra^ — I am  a freshman  at  the  University  of 
Oregon  in  Eugene.  However,  I’ll  probably  be  a father 
before  this  reaches  your  office  which  is  a roundabout 
way  of  saying  that  I’m  not  exactly  a "Uttle-bit-of- 
freshman”,  not  in  ever  respect  anyway! 

major  will  be  Education  as  soon  as  I get  my 
junior  certificate  in  Liberal  Arts.  Such  a major  also 
calls  for  two  minors.  At  present  one  of  my  minors 
is  English  and  the  other  will  probably  be  Biology.  In 
case  anyone  is  interested  the  hardest  things  are:  (1) 
living  on  ninety  a month;  (2)  spelling.  All  in  all  I 
must  be  a rather  lucky  buzzara. 

Now  that  you  have  immaculately,  dissected,  classi- 
fied, and  filed  another  of  your  fair-hearted  boys — 
shall  not  the  said  entity  proceed' with  a similar  treat- 
ment of  the  May  STARTLING? 

The  cover  was  not  cluttered  up  with  extra  detail  and 
the  color  combination  was  in  good  order — the  Earl  of 
Bergy  can  relax  and  continue  to  ignore  me.  The 
interior  makeup  shows  vast  improvement.  I am  very 
fond  of  the  various  styles  of  type  used  and  especially 
of  the  fact  that  they  are  varied  and  not  crowded  on  a 
space  the  size  of  my  thumb-nail. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  RISING  WINDS— Frank  Belknap 
Long  seems  to  be  doing  better  lately — with  fresh  ideas 
and  a more  literate  Irandling — better  atmosphere  and 
interesting  characters.  Yes,  I know,  some  reader  is 
bound  to  say  he  used  poor  ‘ingli^’  and  that  his 
characters  are  flat  

THE  MASK  OF  CIRCE — Henry  Kuttner  obviously 
tried  desperately  to  do  a superior  job  on  ttiis  novel — 
and  he  did.  The  opening  paragraphs  were  as  i^ell- 
biz^ing  as  the  opening  of  Coleridge’s  "Ancient 
Mariner”  and  Kuttner’s  closing  was  artful  and  well 
balanced  with  the  plot  Here  and  fiiere  in  the  story 
were  bits  of  dialogue  and  expressions  of  thou^t  that 
sounded  like  run-of-the-mill  "pulp"  phrases.  They 
were  the  more  discordant  becaiise  of  the  fineness  of 
the  rest  erf  the  novel  and  were  so  few  that  it  really 
is  rather  mean  of  me  even  to  mention  fiiem — I’ll  bet 
Hank  could  weed  them  out  and  have  a great  book  for 
the  fantasy  book  publishers. 

THE  SIMPLE  LIFE  sounds  slanted  toward  the 
SATURDAY  EVENING  POST  and  is  good— extra  good 
for  variety.  The  best  Cummings  yam  in  years  and 
years.  THE  SEEKERS — Williams  has  such  a sympathy 
for  the  theme  of  his  science-fiction  that  it  has  to  be 
good.  NO  ESCAPE  FROM  DESTINY — good  crime  yam. 
JOURNEY— Gee!  He  got  her!  AFTER  THE  ATOM— a 
severe  blow  to  man’s  ego — which  is  a jwetty  nasty  ego 
in  most  cases.  The  Hofame  as  usual  would  make  in- 
laid lanoleum  for  the  bottom  step  of  the  standard  cut 
for  the  same — it  was  fiat  enough. — Rt.  2,  Box  264, 
Springfield,  Oregon. 


Good  luck,  Rosco — but  we  do  hope  you 
have  to  lay  some  kitchen  linoleum  soon  in  a 
moving  trailer  while  travelling  a dirt  road 
during  a spring  thaw. 

HURT 

by  Gwen  Cunningham 

Dear  Editor:  I have  a Finlay  porMollo  handy  in  my 
living  room.  When  guests  arrive,  do  I fool  around 
showing  them  silly  tbdngs  like  me  in  levis  up  to  my 
neck  fishing  for  trout?  Or  gurgling  babies,  in  the 
middle  of  a bath?  Or  a group  of  scrawny  faced 
mounlaineer-type  relatives,  stainding  by  a cabin  door? 
No!  Heaven  forbid!  I want  them  to  visit  me  again. 
So  I get  out  the  old  Finlay  portfolio,  and  give  them 
the  thrill  of  their  lifetimes. 

I have  feit  very  hurt  lately,  because  you  do  not 
print  my  letters.  So  I began  to  wonder  if  you  could 
even  read  them.  On  that  premise,  I borrowed  a Royal 
from  a kind  neighbor  and  hope  this  time  I’m  lucky.  At 
least  I hope  you  can  read  this  better  than  my  usual 
attempts. 

A lot  of  readers  seem  to  ignore  rating  the  stori^, 
but  to  me  it  is  a very  important  duty  of  the  fans. 
How  else  can  you  editors  know  how  much  we  like  or 
dislike  a story » anyhow? 


132  STARTLING  STORIES 


So  here  goes  for  my.  usual  comments. 

Zagat’s  “No  Escape  From  Destiny” — a fair  story, 
Interesting  enough  to  read,  anyhow. 

Kuttner — well,  he  always  hits  the  gong,  as  far  as 
I'm  concerned.  “Mask  of  Circe”  was  no  exception. 
Es^llent  work — fine  idea — good  plot. 

Cummings^  shortie  was  cute  and  had  more  truth 
than  poetiy  in  it  The  sly  humor  of  his  gentle 
sarcasm,  as  usual,  cheered  up  my  sour  disposition 
and  made  me  laugh  out  loud.  No  doubt  about  it — 
Cummings  is  a good  writer. 

Frank  Long’s  "House  of  the  Rising  Winds”  had  a 
haunting  quality  I like,  and  an  kmuendo  of  weirdness 
that  gave  just  the  right  touch  of  variety  to  this  issue. 
Another  great  writer. 

Bob  Williams'  "Seekers”  was  fine  also.  I generally 
feel  very  fond  of  the  gentle  races  described  in  stories 
like  this.  I've  not  read  William’s  work  often  enou^ 
to  remember  him  before,  but  now  I will  look  for  more 
-by  him. 

George  Snath's  "Journey”  was  a little  too  dry  to  in- 
terest me.  It  may  have  been  very  good  work,  but  no 
doubt  I'm  a bit  lacking  intellectually.  I'm  not  against 
stellar  math  and  space  drives  and  dizzying  light 
years.  But  In  this  story — so  what? 

Ernst,  in  his  "Microscopic  Giants”  wrote  a cutie. 
I'd  like  to  learn  more  about  the  heavy  little  men,  with 
the  nasty  little  weapons.  What  makes  them  tick,  etc. 
Mi^i  be  a good  story  in  finding  out  more  about  them. 
Hmmm? 

Feam,  in  “After  the  Atom”,  was  good  as  a story,  but 
how  I long  for  more  and  more  good  writers  to  look 
into  this  possibility — learn  all  the  theories  and  write 
them  so  we  can  picture  them  for  ourselves,  as  pos- 
sibilities. It  is,  as  the  saying  goes,  later  than  you 
think.  And  the  more  we  can  learn  about  the  possible 
outcome  of  atomic  warfare,  the  better  off  we  will  all 
be.  I know  personally  I’m  terribly  anxious  to  read 
all  I can  about  this  subject,  but  the  learned  treatises 
are  beyond  me,  A few  learned  writers  could  be  the 
medium  of  our  understanding.  I think,  seriously,  we 
need  more  and  more  intelligent  POSSIBLE  stories  of 
this  type.  So  I thank  Mr.  Feam  for  his  very  timely 
story.  Let’s  have  a lot  of  them. 

"The  Ether  Vibrates”  found  a real  star,  fids  time. 
Joe  Shaumburger  was  really  super.  I really  got  a 
kick  out  of  his  blank,  blank  verse.  As  for  Gerry  de  la 
Ree,  if  he  doesn’t  like  St.  Clair,  phooey,  why  doesn't 
he  go  out  and  buy  a Disney  Comic?  For  those  of  us 
who  like  the  Saint,  Clair  that  is,  please  give  her  a kiss 
and  let  her  stay.  We  won’t  let  the  nasty  man  get 
tough  with  her!  And  fiiat's  a promise!  You  can 
also  ignore  his  idea  about  dropping  the  Hall  of  Fame. 
In  fact  if  you  ask  me,  Mr.  de  la  Ree  gave  pretty  high- 
handed orders  all  on  his  own,  didn’t  he?  I hope  you 
wait  for  the  votes  of  all  of  us  before  you  run  to  do 
his  bidding.  Who  does  he  think  he  is,  anyway? 

I wi^  to  add  one  rather  sharp  criticism  of  Ye 
Editor.  Here  I am  writing  my  heart  out,  and  sincere 
about  it,  too.  but  letter  after  letter  gets  lost  in  your 
waste  basket.  Of  course  I admit  there  are  some  who 
write  better  than  I.  But  alas!  When  I find  jack 
elements  of  ohio  getting  in  print  by  no  other  means 
than  a lot  of  nasty  cracks  and  no  capitals,  I have  to 
holler.  That  about  the  capitals  is  a mean  under- 
handed trick.  He’s  trying  to  go  Rick  Sneary  one 
better.  But  I believe  Sneary  is  honest  about  his  spell- 
ing. You  can’t  tell  me  elements  wasn’t  ever  shown 
what  a capital  letter  is  I Not  If  he  reads  “Ether 
Vibrates”!!  So  I have  to  tell  you  that  I feel  very 
disappointed  in  you,  Ed.  Do  I have  to  write  my  letters 
backwards  or  something,  to  make  you  read  them?  Well, 
dam  it,  I won’t.  If  my  forward  writing  isn’t  enough. 
I'll  sit  down  and  write  letters  to  the  Spirits.  They 
won’t  answer  me  either. 

This  letter  is  probably  so  long  you  won’t  print  It, 
anyhow.  Isn’t  that  just  my  luck?  But  I don’t  worry. 
Next  month,  maybe,  I can  write  you  a short,  sweet 
letter,  like  "Phooey”  or  something,  and  you’ll  be  able 
to  squeeze  me  in.  (Not  too  tight,  PLEASE!) — 5519 
MacArthur  Blvd.,  Oakland  5,  Calif. 


Gwen,  your  writing  is  forward  enough  and 
aren’t  you  indulging  in  a bit  of  hjrperbole 
with  that  “letter  after  letter”  business?  Glad 
you  liked  the  May  issue  and  St.  Clair. 

So  you  give  your  guests  a bubble  bath  with 
the  Finlay  portfolio — ^well,  perhaps  they  need 
it 


UNKINDEST  CUT  OF  ALL! 

by  Furman  H.  Agee  Jr. 

IB,  Bub:  Here’s  something  different.  As  long  as 
you're  taking  up  valuable  space  with  a lot  of  drivel 
by  other  drips  you  just  as  wen  take  up  a little  mca» 
for  more  of  the  same  while  I unburden  myself  of 
some  verbiage  that  has  been  accumulating  for  lo.  these 
many  years. 

Contrary  to  the  expostulation  of  the  greater  majority 
of  participants  in  your  "grand  old  order  eff  vibratli^ 
ether,”  I read  the  stuff  when,  and  only  when,  I have 
exhausted  air  other  reading  matter.  (This  haw>ens 
all  too  often  as  I just  can’t  seem  to  obtain  enough 
Science  Fiction.)  TTie  above  statement  will  probably 
disqualify  me  as  an  analyst  eff  things  to  do  but  here 
goes — the  mouth  is  open — and  ready  for  the  feet  . . . 

The  question  before  the  house  is:  HOW  CAN  ANY 
REAL.  HONEST  TO  GOSH.  SCIENCE  FKHION  EN- 
THUSIAST DESIRE  A LARGER  (OR  EVEN  ANY) 
DEPARTMENT  IN  A MAGAZINE  THAT  TAKES  UP 
SPACE  WHICH  COULD  BE  USED  TO  AN  AD- 
VANTAGE BY  PRINTING  ANOTHER  STORY???????? 

I propose  thLs — especially  during  the^  days  of  pajjer 
shoitoge — cut  out  the  friction  and  print  more  fictiofu 
Printed  opinions  on  the  merits  or  demerits  of  certain 
stories  only  prove  one  thing — ALL  PEOPLE  DON’T 
THINK  ALIKE— AND  SOME  PEOPLE  DON’T  THINK, 
PERIOD.  Anyone  with  even  juvenile  intelligence 
realizes  this,  so  why  waste  space  in  each  issue  re- 
peating this  known  fact.  After  all,  to  one  who  really 
appreciates  Science  Fiction,  there  are  only  three  kinds, 
good,  better  and  best. 

You,  to  be  the  editor  of  a successful  publication 
have  to  be  a reasonable  judge  of  the  qualifications  of 
all  three.  Time  spent  reading  "Letters  to  the  Editor” 
of  the  type  printed  (the  majority  of  same).  I will 
admit,  can  be  of  advantage  to  you  in  one  wayj  it 
gives  you  an  idea  what  the  letter  writers  desire.  You 
notice  I said,  letter  writers.  The  majority  of  pur- 
chasers, and  subscribers  (like  myself)  read  on  for 
years  and  show  their  approval  or  dislike  by  buying  or 
leaving  strictly  alone,  your  offerings;  bursting  into 
literature  only  on  rare,  VERY  RARE,  occasions. 

While  I'm  at  it,  I had  just  as  well  cover  the  field. 
Take  illustrations.  Having  had  training  (two  years) 
some  time  ago  in  commercial  art  I ^nk  I am 
qt^ifled  to  judge  a little,  and  only  a little,  the  skill 
of  application  and  aptness  of  illustration.  Some  oi 
your  presentations  are  definitely  pleasing  to  the 
esthetic  senses  and  others,  frankly,  are  not  worthy 
of  a second  glance.  So  what!!?  Admire  and  absorb  the 
beauty  of  those  which  are  pleasing,  and  don’t  give  the 
others  the  second  glance.  Are  the  pro  and  con  state- 
ments regarding  the  relatii’e  values  of  each  portrayal 
worthy  of  using  paper  and  time  that  could  be  used, 
I repeat  myself,  TO  PRINT  ANOTHER  STORY? 

Also,  the  time  you,  dear  Editor,  have  to  spend  in 
composing  answers  (and  in  verse,  blank  and  other- 
wise, yet)  could  be  of  murii  more  value  if  used  in 
judging  those  good,  better  and  best  stories,  and 
figuring  which  one  would  fit  in  the  soace  saved  by 
eliminating  the  noble  efforts  of  thc«e  who  like  to  see 
their  name  in  print. 

Yours  for  THE  INSTALLATION  OF  MORE  SCIENCE 
FICTION.  MADE  POSSIBLE  BY  THE  "ELIMINATION 
OF  PERSONAL  EXPOSTUT.ATON.— 5524  Lakeside  Ave- 
nue. Richmond  22,  Virginia. 


Okay,  dear  alleged  readers,  let’s  hear  your 
opinions  on  this  one.  It  seems  to  us  our  two 
enlargements  should  do  something  to  allay 
glutton  Agee’s  insatiable  appetite  for  stf. 

ROSE  KNOWS— OR  DOES  HE? 

by  William  E.  Rose 

Just  who’s  kidding  who  is  the  question. 

In  this  mass  of  printed  congestion, 

Called  Fantasy,  Science  and  Fiction,  by  expression 
And  literal  diction  in  the  col  mans  of  ether  vibrates. 
My  advice  to  those  seeking  science 
(In  many  a musty  and  erudite  tome) 

Should  dilUgently  seek  fiiroti^  appliance. 

Quiet  hours  neath  the  library's  dome. 


THE  ETHER 

Alone  with  larvae  and  cobwebs. 

They  wonld  be  completely  at  home. 

I like  the  old  book  as  it’s  printed, 

With  fantasy  fiction  galore. 

More  science  would  crumb  It  entirely, 

And  make  its  concepts  a bore. 

This  is  only  my  humble  opinion, 

It  surely  will  cause  no  uproar. 

In  the  executive  chambers  of  ^tum. 

The  Guzzling  Sargent  of  yore. 

As  I close  this  modest  epistle. 

My  being  subconsciously  yearns. 

To  meet  and  belabor  a person, 

With  nondescript  surname  of  "Bums!” 

But  periiaps  it’s  the  time  and  the  season. 

That  mayhem  and  homicide  turns. 

Without  any  rhyming  or  reason — 

Just  to  throttle  a guy  that's  named  Bums! — 
P.  O.  Box  430,  Beaumont,  Texas. 


Your  usual  metrical  missive  is  hereby  quite 
gladly  received 

It  finds  us  quite  gaUy  submissive  in  spite  <rf 
the  fact  you  sound  peeved 
We  take  joy  in  the  fact  that  you  find  us 
interesting  as  of  yore 

And  the  fact  that  you  don’t  seem  to  mind  us 
nor  think  us  a thing  to  deplore 
But  after  re-reading  your  ’pistle,  with  all  of 
its  twistings  and  turns 

We  can’t  for  the  hfe  of  us  whistie  up  motives 
for  throttling  one  Bums 
Perhaps  in  your  next  you  will  tell  us  your 
reasons  for  wishing  him  woe 
And  if  it  is  not  out  of  season  the  why-for  of 
hating  him  so 

THE  HUMAN  BEM  RETURNS 

by  Michael  Wigodsky 

Dear  Sir:  I went  to  the  newsstand.  I looked  at 
stacks  of  magazines.  Then  I went  to  the  back  of  the 
store.  The  owner  was  holding  up  copies  of  STARTLING 
and  (censored).  Both  were  marked  W.  He  saved 
them  for  me. 

I buy  them  and  take  them  home.  Naturally  I read 
STARTLING  first  Naturally  I read  ttie  letter  column, 
first  Naturally.  I «anm«it: 

There’s  quite  a row  on. 

So  from  now  on 
I win  asperse 
In  verse. 

The  editorial 

Touches  on  a subject  immemorial, 

Also  the  editor  quoted  Gilbert’s  song 
Wrong. 

In  the  next  issue: 

Good  stories,  I will  miss  you. 

On  the  subject  of  “Yaga,  va  khoseth,** 

Poul  Anderson  cannot  bhos(t)eth. 

Double-talk  I like 

And  you  know  my  name  is  Mif^iael.  not  K£ke, 

I will  not  write  the  rest  of  this  letter  in  verse,  it  is 
too  much  trouble. 

I do  not  agree  with  Mrs.  Burkhart  To  me,  it  se«ns 
that  a sequel  would  be  a great  disappointment  Bok, 
in  the  closing  pages,  worked  up  a great  deal  of  sus- 
pense. Any  &ing  he  could  possibly  Ihlnk  up  to  fellow 
this  would  be  far  below  the  level  of  this  story. 

About  that  Captain  Suture  business,  one  of  your 
competitors  beat  you  to  it.  They  have  a diaracter 
called  Old  Doc  Methuselah.  He’s  very  popular  too. 

Huhi  I can’t  think  of  anything  to  say  about  T/5 
James  G.  White’s  letter! 

If  no  story  can  be  reprinted  until  it  is  at  least  ten 
years  old,  I recommend  that  the  HoF  be  kept  imtil 
May,*  1950,  so  that  Kuttner’s  BEAUTY  AND  THE 
BEAST  may  be  r^>rinted.  It  is  a minor  masterpiece. 
It  was  printed  in  the  April  1940  TWS. 

Why  is  it  that  people  try  to  explain  all  history  widi 


VIBRATES  133 

pre-historic  atomic  bombs?  Remember  the  time 
Heinlein  hinted  that  the  mo<m  craters  were  caused  by 
atomic  bombs? 

The  last  paragraph  of  Kirschnick’s  letter  sounds 
like  an  attempt  to  start  Mie  of  those  “How  do  you 
know  that  you  know?”  things.  Remember  Shaw’s 
diatribe  <m  the  distance  between  the  sun  and  the 
earth? 

Lin  Carter:  Nothing  can  be  said  about  Lin  that  Xhe 
editor  hasn’t  punned  before. 

Thanks  for  the  compliment.  Shammy.  1*11  say  that 
you're  on  the  beam  sometime  too.  You  aren’t  in  this 
letter,  however  . . . bibbledy!; : !* 

By  the  way,  is  sic  an  abbreviation  of  sick? 

I just  realized  that  I skipped  ail  the  letters  between 
Sue  Chadwick  and  Don  Day.  I go  back. 

To  George  Andrews:  Remember  Kipling’s  **Who 
can  doubt  ‘the  secret  hid  imder  Cheops  pyramid*  was 
that  the  contractor  did  Cheops  out  of  several  mil- 
lion!” 

In  my  opinion  the  eariy  TWS  diould  be  turned 
to  for  HofF  selections. 

Thm  comes  Steamboat  (rmmd  tiie  bend)  Sneary. 
Let  us  sneer. 

He  (Roscoe  E.  Wright)  is  studying  under  Harold 
Lloyd  Roscoe,  I mean  FEWright.  Or  am  I thinking  of 
Eric  Frank  Russell? 

Did  I forget  to  tell  you  that  I (me?  we?)  moved  to 
Chicago? 

Muleahee!  Does  it  wrym  wit  lil  b*lee? 

W.  E.  Rose  millions  Urania.  Has  he  heard  lhat, 
according  to  the  INFORMATION  P— E ALMANAC, 
the  principal  use  of  Uranium  at  tiie  present  time  is 
in  the  ceramics  industry? 

I have  a pome : 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck,  (of  cards) 
Burning  STARTLINGs  by  the  peck!  (Query:  What  is 

a peck?) 

His  father  caHed  him  but  he  would  not  go, 

(disobedittit) 

Because  he  hated  M — ^n  so  (Just  like  me!) 

(Tm  only  kidding,  kid!) 

Alas!  By  Keller,  I have  only  read  STENOGRA- 
PHER’S HANDS.  THE  LIFE  DETOUR  & THE  BONE- 
LESS HORROR 

A John  Van  CJouvering  is  defined  by  Klebster  as: 
“The  third  transformatkHi  in  Glabning’s  extrasion 
scale.** 

I was  eleven  when  I wrote  my  first  letter.  I’m 
twelve  now.  m be  thirteen  in  May,  May  -23.  Do  you 
want  to  send  me  a present? 

JVC  hints  that  I.  Wigodsky,  visually  say  nothing  in 
five  lines.  He  also  hints  fliat  in  the  Janiveery  SS  I 
said  nothing  in  fifty  Ikies.  There  are  rumors  that 
JVC  has  bwn  known  to  say  notiiing  in  5(M)  or  even 
5000  lines.  So  there! 

ni  send  La  Bullock  a loaf  of  stale  butter.  ‘She.’ 
doesn’t.’  like.’  Lovecraft* 

Oh!  That  was  Jick  d«nensy  who  made  the  crack 
I attributed  to  JVC.  But  JVC  said  scMmething  to  the 
same  effect. 

Then  there’s  this  Harwood  guy!  I like  Burroughs 
too,  but  I think  that  the  Burroughs  worshippers  (that 
means  you,  V.  D.  Coriell)  are  crazy!  There!  I’ve  said  it 
and  rm  glad!  Glaad!  Glahd! 

Carolyn  Duty  berates  me  for  my  spelling!  Hah!  She 
mispells  her  own  name!  Everyone  knows  her  name  is 
Carlirm  Duse. 

Bolker  has  never  read  an  uninteresting  SS  lead- 
novel!  Hah!  What  about  THE  GODS  HATE  KANSAS? 

Groover  called  Weber  a Neanderthal.  He  means,  of 
course,  a Cro-Magnon. 

Huh!  For  once.  I’m  not  going  to  insult  Connor.  I 
agree  with  him!  A miracle! 

Where’s  Dr.  Jekyll?  He's  tanning  Gene  A.  Hyde. 
(*Thanx  to  Jack  Smith) 

What  do  lapels  have  to  do  with  bustles?  What  do 
bustle  have  to  do  witii  lapels?  And  what  does  either 
one  of  them  have  to  do  with  my  spelling? 

I will  comment  on  two  tilings  in  ROTSFFP.  Slrst: 
Who  is  Sprague  de  Campem?  Second:  When  you  said 
that  the  poetry  made  me  November  GORGON  spe- 
cial, were  you  referring  to  my  poem?  (No!  ED.) 

Surprise:  1*11  now  comment  on  tiie  stories. 

Kuttner  was  exceptional. 

Zagat  was  fair. 

Cummings  was  fair. 

Long  was  fair. 

Williams  was  fair. 

Smith  was  fair. 

Ernst  was  very  good, 

Feam  was  terrible. 

As  for  the  illustratkms,  the  least  said  the  better.— 
7744  Ridgeland  Avenue.  Chicago  49,  IHinois. 


134  STARTLING  STORIES 


We  consulted  the  local  G&S  authority  on 
that  quotation  from  “lolanthe,”  Mikhael.  He 
is  more  hurt  than  you  at  being  caught  with 
his  breeks  at  half  mast.  Sic  means  so,  exactly 
so,  so  what  or  so  that’s  exactly  how  it  is. 

We  too  have  a pome 
We  wish  you’d  take  a moistened  tampon 
And  wipe  out  ref.  to  Sprague  de  Campon 
Then  tell  the  ’sembled  gals  and  boys 
Just  why  you  moved  to  Illinois. 

And  save  our  editorial  muscles 
From  tying  up  lapels  with  bustles. 

We’U  leave  your  spelling  out  of  it,  Mikhael. 

YELLOW  HORROR 

by  Billie  Lee  Randolph 

Dear  Ed:  What  happened  to  Bergey?  For  awhile  he 
was  improving  so  much,  now  he  goes  crazy  again. 
Look  at  that  bright  yellow  background!  And  his  babe 
is  not  half  as  nice  as  she  used  to  was. 

I wish  to  know  something  about  EKB,  so  I could  add 
my  bit  to  all  this  info  about  the  sun  inside  the  earth. 
Perhaps  I could  say  something  anyway.  (I  love  to 
talk  about  things  1 don’t  know  anything  about)  I have 
thunk.  Here  is  my  glorious  contribution.  “Ahem  . . . 
hem”  (Said  self-consciously]) 

Now  that  we  have  gotten  into  the  swing  of  things, 
maybe  I can  say  something  sensible  for  a change. 
(Keep  quiet,  you  kibitzer)  I bet  you  never  had  a 
reader  as  crazy  as  1 am! 

The  first  letter  I want  to  tear  to  pieces  is  one  by 
a horrible  creature  called  jack  elements.  Not  only 
did  he  run  myself  into  the  ground,  he  maliciously 
tells  all  feni-fans  to  go  knit  socks!  Now  is  that  nice? 
Really,  Jack,  we're  xuce  kids,  you  should  get  to  know 
us  a wee  bit  better. 

According  to  Paul  Anderson,  most  of  the  so-called 
science-fiction  is  really  fantasy.  I disagree.  I think  a 
story  is  SF  if  its  plot  is  based  on  a scientific  problem. 
It's  fantasy  if  the  characters  go  around  dashing  into 
other  dimensions  with  only  a wave  of  the  hand  and  a 
few  magic  words. 

I agree  with  Rick  Sneary  that  a lot  of  earth’s  people 
are  getting  pushed  around  a lot  I wonder  what  a 
super  civilization  on  Mars  or  Venus  would  think  of  all 
our  puny  quarrels. 

I read  in  the  paper  lately  that  we  now  have  a radio- 
active cloud  that  is  quite  deadly.  In  the  same  article 
they  mentioned  that  the  atom  bomb  is  now  outmoded. 
Who  wants  to  bet  that  stf  will  have  to  run  some  to 
keep  ahead  of  our  bloodthirsty  sclwitists? 

My  favorite  story  this  ish  was  one  of  the  shorts. 
The  House  of  Rising  Winds  made  me  shiver  and  then 
cheer.  I like  stories  with  children  as  heroes  and  hero- 
ines, they  are  the  most  lovable. 

The  Hall  of  Fame  was  fine  this  time.  Like  all  the 
old  classics,  it  left  the  possibility  of  defeat  in  the  air. 
Only  idiots  believe  that  everything  turns  out  all  right 
all  the  time. 

I know  that  1*11  be  chopped  to  pieces  by  Kuttner 
fans,  but  ITl  risk  anything  for  duty.  I haven't  liked 
any  Kuttner  that  I can  remember.  His  style  just  don’t 
click  with  me. — 3355  San  Fernando  Rd.,  Los  Angeles 
41,  Calif. 

Too  bad  about  Kuttner  and  Bergey — but 
don’t  fret  overmuch,  Billie  Lee.  It  is  highly 
doubtful  that  either  will  starve  for  some  time 
to  come  irregardless. 

You  gals  reaUy  seem  to  have  bitten  (as 
well  as  been  bitten  by)  elements.  We  have  a 
horrid  suspicion  things  are  working  out  as 
intended  by  him.  Maybe  he  simply  wanted  a 
new  pair  of  socks. 

We’ll  reserve  opinion  on  the  opinions  of 


Mars  and  Venus  anent  Tellur ean  squabbles 
until  we  get  direct  word  from  the  planets 
mentioned.  Yours  till  the  first  radioactively 
cloudy  day. 

DO  TELL! 

by  Ed  Cox 

Dear  Editor:  The  May  issue  of  STARTLING 

STORIES  arrived  today  and  it's  getting  so  long  now 
that  I have  to  write  two  letters  on  one  issue!  I have 
only  read  the  letter  column  and  the  fanzine  review  so 
far  but  the  rest  of  the  mag  surely  looks  wonderful. 

The  main  reason  I'm  writing  this  letter  is  this: 
LIFE  DEFINITELY  EXISTS  ON  MARSH  By  this  time 
you  know  all  about  that  but  now  that  we  know  th^t 
mosses  and  lichens  (probably  bacteria,  too)  exirt, 
what  may  have  existed  before  and  how  is  ^s  dis- 
covery going  to  effect  die  science-fiction  stories  that 
authors  will  write  about  Mars  in  the  future?  There 
are  endless  possibilities  to  be  explored  and  written 
about  now; 

How  will  the  authors  explain  the  life  and  what 
might  have  inhabited  Mars?  True,  many  stories,  so 
very  many,  have  been  written  on  this  subject,  but  now 
that  we  KNOW,  how  will  the  authors  ^eat  this 
subject? 

The  report  says  that  there  can't  be  any  “monsters 
from  Mars’’  but  what  about  the  possibilify  of  a race 
of  Martians  still  living  on  the  planet  that  have  grad- 
ually evolved  over  the  centuries  to  a point  where  they 
need  not  breathe  air  (by  our  standards)  or  very  much 
if  there  is  enough  left  on  the  planet  to  breathe? 

Now  we  know  that  th^e  low  forms  of  plant  life 
most  probably  exist.  How  do  we  know  that  they  are 
plant  Ufe?!  Many  times  in  science  fiction  stories, 
there  have  been  highly  evolved  forms  of  plant  life. 
Maybe  that  life  on  Mars  is  like  the  “biopods”  in  Stan- 
ley G.  Weinbaum’s  A MARTIAN  ODYSSEY. 

Well,  I've  said  ^ough  on  this  subject  for  now. 
But  wait  until  they  get  the  two  hundred  incher  turned 
on  Mars!  Then  we'll  find  out  something!  But  wait 
'till  1956  when  Mars  will  be  only  30,000,000  miles 
away!! 

Now  for  a few  comments  on  the  May  SS.  Ah, 
haaa.  . . I see  you  have  a new,  small  size  print  in 
TEV.  Now  there’s  lotsa  room  for  more  letters!  As  the 
current  fad  seems  to  be  to  take  up  letters  separately, 
here  goes  on  a few. 

Paul  Anderson:  I agree  with  our  Ed.  Ya  can’t  quite 
classify  stf  and  fantasy  like  diat!  I’ll  go  into  this 
subject  in  some  other  letter. 

(jerry  de  la  Ree:  interring  info.  And  congrats 
on  LOKI! 

Rick  Sneary:  Hamilton’s  story  was  good!  But  Bok’s 
wuz  better!! 

William  E.  Rose:  Gad!  Where’s  muh  dictiemary! 

Cynthia  Carey:  Wow!  You  told  ’em,  but  diere  may 
be  other  people  who  feel  exactly  the  opposite  about 
his  stories.  Wonder  what’ll  happen,  now? 

Linda  Blake:  Trying  to  break  into  fandom??!! 

Ra«h  girl!  Good  luck! 

Les  and  Es  Cole:  Yah.  what’s  SFTPOBEMOTCOFP? 

Joe  Kirschnick:  That  question!  Man’s  mind  can’t 
grasp  it,  that's  all.  (Ed.  That  wasn’t  a mild  pass  at 
Forp?,  was  it!!??!) 

Lin  Carter:  You're  right  about  the  cover  but  Bok 
can’t  quite  match  Merritt  A lot  like  him,  but  there’s 
something  in  Merritt’s  stories.  . . . 

Joe  Schaumburger:  Heyl  Free  verse!  That  was 

good!!  Do  it  again. 

John  Van  Couvering:  Oh.  yah?  I saw  your  pitcher. 
You  ain’t  old!!  Hah!  I’ve  betrayed  you.  . . . Don’t! 
Don’t!  (Blue  pencil  hovers  . . .) 

Jerri  Bullock:  Fitzgerald  (Jenkins)  I’ve  heard,  is 
a scientist!!  How  can  you  say  that  about  HPL??!! 
And  Merritt  was  best  at  stories  like  DWELLERS  IN 
THE  MIRAGE  and  THE  SHIP  OF  ISHTAR  than  at 
SE\^N  FOOTPRINTS  TO  SATAN,  etc.  And  Cap  Fu- 
ture would  do  better  than  that! 

jack  elements:  i’m  going  to  write  a letter  with  all 
words  in  caps  someday!  i also  agree  with  you  about 
rick,  if  he  doesn’t  do  that  on  pupose,  he’s  a horned 
genius!!  but  you're  in  for  it  on  the  fern  idea,  tho. 
the  more  fannes,  the  better,  congrats  to  all  the  ferns 
that  wrote  letters  this  issue! 

Well,  Ed.,  this  is  all.  I’ll  write  a letter  on  the 
stories  soon.  Oops,  I haven’t  mentioned  anything 
about  the  fanzine  review  section  yeti  I agree  with 


135 


THE  ETHER  VIBRATES 


tile  fellow  (I  fwgot  who  now)  who  asked  for  more 
pages  devoted  to  reviewing  the  fanzines.  At  best,  all 
you  can  do  now  is  to  give  a sketch  of  the  con- 
tents of  the  fanzines.  Now  that  I’m  on  this  subject,  I 
can't  think  of  anydaing  else  to  say  I 
Now  that  I'm  well  on  the  third  page,  I want  to  say 
a little  about  something  tiiat  has  irked  me  no  end  for 
many,  many  moons.  It  is  the  apparent  lack  of  fans  in 
Maine.  As  far  as  I know,  there  are  but  four  or  five  of 
us.  Huss  Woodman,  Norm  Stanley  and  I are  tiie  only 
ones  that  seem  to  be  active  at  aH  aiwi  Norm  Stanley 
doesn’t  seem  to  venture  outside  FAPA  very  mudi. 
That  just  leaves  two  of  us  I 
So,  if  tiiis  letter  sees  print  Maine  fans,  heed  this: 
Come  on  and  get  busy!  Write  in  to  the  letter  columns 
and  make  yourselves  known!  Maine  is  way  behind 
most  of  the  other  states  in  fandom!!  Come  on,  get 
those  letters  in!!  It’s  fun  writing  ’em!  (Tho  Ye  Olde 
Editore  may  have  other  ideas  about  them  when  he 
gets  ’em!).  S’long  for  now  ”dream  boat"!  (I  wondw 
why  }^ck  called  you  that?!) — 4 Spring  Street,  Lubec, 
Matne. 

Don’t  ask  us,  Ed!  In  fact,  don’t  ask  us 
anything  at  the  moment.  Let  us  just  hold  our 
head  in  our  two  feet  En  passant,  peasant, 
that  was  quite  a hunk  of  campfire  speculation 
on  life  on  Mars.  And — ^just  to  add  a final 
touch — has  it  ever  occurred  to  any  of  you 
alleged  thinking  machines  that  life  might 
exist  on  other  planets  but  in  such  form  that 
no  human  being  could  recognize  it — or  vice 
versa?  In  which  case  we  would  never  know. 

WOE  IS  US! 

by  Eunice  Schaver 

Dear  Editor:  I have  just  hnlshed  the  May  issue  of 
Startling  Stories,  and  having  read  also  the  letters 
from  the  fans  decided  to  drop  you  a guided  missive 
of  my  own.  Look  out  when  it  l^ids. 

As  it  seems  to  be  the  custom  to  class  the  stories  and 
articles  I think  I will  take  a ^ot  at  it.  I especially  like 
the  reader’s  page  or  "Ether  Vibrates”  as  it  is  called. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem  I agree  witii  Jack  Clements 
about  the  letters  you  get  from  the  female  fans.  I say 
they  (meaidng  the  female  fans,  including  me)  surely 
could  write  one  letter  to  put  the  male  fans  in  their 
place.  Woe  is  us.  Haven’t  we  at  least  one  intelligent 
member  on  our  side?  Ccane  on,  girls,  let’s  show  toem. 

As  for  Joe  Kirschnlck,  I’d  like  to  see  more  of  hia 
letters  in  print.  He  really  has  a sense  of  humor.  Lin 
Carter  is  good  too.  Eadie  T.  Smith  ditto,  ^cept  for  his 
defence  of  Rick  Sneary.  Rick  doesn’t  know  all  the  an- 
swers, he  only  thinks  he  does  What  does  he  mean, 
Weber  should  get  lost  in  the  Fields?  He  i^KiuId  get 
lost  (meaning  Rick  Sneary)  in  Atlantis  or  some  place. 
He’s  a tiirowback. 

Now  for  the  stories — 

The  Mask  of  C?irce — Something  was  missing  and  I don't 
mean  Jason. 

The  Simple  Life — Good  enough  said. 

The  House  of  Rising  Winds — Really,  MR.  Long,  we 
aren't  children.  UGH. 

No  Escape  From  Destiny — Number  1 triffic. 

The  Seekers — Swell. 

Journey — I’m  glad  he  wasn’t  gone  twenty  years.  I al- 
ways like  for  the  hero  to  get  the  girl. 

The  Microscopic  Giants — Almost  number  1. 

After  the  Atom — Good  but  gruesome. 

I guess  I'd  better  close.  I don’t  want  to  fill  your 
waste  basket  with  only  one  letter,  because  I intend  to 
write  more.  Keep  up  the  good  work.  An  old  fan  who 
finally  got  the  courage  to  write. — 1020  Sottfh  Flores 
Street.  San  Antonio,  Texas. 

Intelligent  females  wanted?  Are  you  spoof- 
ing? We  were  under  the  definite  (if  perhaps 
erroneous)  impression  that  Eadie  was  and  is 
a lady.  Doesn’t  the  song  say  so? 

As  for  the  Weber  & Fields  fiasco,  Eunice, 
you  can’t  he  so  old  if  you  missed  that  cme. 
Keep  writing,  baby. 


’ROUND  AND  AROUND  AND 
AROUND  WE  GO 

by  Keith  Johnson 

Dear  Editor:  When  I saw  the  name  oi  Kpttner  on  the 
lead  novel,  I knew  that  you  had  come  up  with  another 
good  story,  and  I was  right.  The  Mask  of  Circe  was  a 
fantasy  I couldn’t  put  down  until  I had  finished  it. 

You  notice  the  word  fantasy?  In  my  opinion  all 
science-fiction  could  be  lumped  into  the  broad  category 
called  fantasy.  Labeling  a story  as  such  merely  means 
that  it  is  a product  of  imagination,  and  does  not  mean 
that  the  story  contains,  or  is  in  itself  a basic  untruth. 
Enou^  for  fantasy. 

The  ^ort  stories  were  passable,  and  the  H.  of  F. 
story  was  one  of  the  best  you’ve  printed  for  quite 
awhile.  Usually  these  so-called  classics  are  a big  bust. 

The  Ether  Vibrates  was  lively  as  usual  with  a wealth 
of  good  and  bad  ideas.  Only  criticism  I have  concern- 
ing this  is  the  tendency  to  print  too  many  letters  from 
old  standbys.  A few  are  all  right  but  I like  to  hear 
from  nev/  voices  with  new  ideas,  preferably  someone 
who  never  heard  of  Merritt  and  didn’t  try  to  decide  11 
Kuttner  can  take  his  place.  Kuttner  is  good  enough 
to  make  a new  niche  for  himself,  and  not  just  take 
over  an  old  one  left  vacant. — 326  W.  Adorns  St, 
Macomb,  UL 


You  make  good  sense  on  both  sore  subjects, 
Keith.  And  if  we  run  a number  of  “old 
standbys”  it’s  because,  in  our  humble  opinion, 
those  we  use  more  than  once  write  interest- 
ing and/or  amusing  letters.  Next,  please. 

LIFE'S  AMBITION 

by  Jim  Coidfrank 

Dear  Ed:  Believe  it  or  not  I’m  beginning  to  rhyme, 
I’ve  wanted  to  do  this  all  of  the  time!! 

But  the  print  on  TEV’s  pages  is  getting  too  ^all. 
Won’t  I be  able  to  read  it  at  ail??? 

That  was  just  an  exp^dment  If  you  don’t  like  IT, 
I promise  on  my  ex-Boy  Scout’s  honor  never  to  do  it 
again. 

Well,  I still  say  it  and  I’m  right  so  far — Kuttner  will 
never,  EVER,  beat  "The  Daik  Worid.”  The  "Mask” 
didn’t  auite  live  up  to  my  expectations. 

The  best  story  in  there  is  "The  House  of  Rising 
tYinds."  The  worst  (three  tied)  "Journey,”  "No  Es- 
cape From  Destiny,”  and  "The  Seekers.”  But  don’t 
mistake  me — toey  were  all  good.  Well,  I just  hope 
‘"The  Valley  of  Creation”  is  what  you  say  it  is,  and 
with  this  I shall  say  goodbye — so  I’LL  say  it,  GOOD- 
BYE.— 1116  Fnlton  St,  Woodmere,  N.  Y. 

Believe  it  or  not,  since  you  call  that  a rhyme 
We’re  glad  that  you  DON’T  do  it  all  of  the 
time. 

But  if  Kuttner ’s  DARK  WORLD  gives  you 
such  a big  kick 

You  and  la  Zimmer  should  be  quite  a click. 

COMES  THE  DELUGE 

by  Jerri  Bullock 

Dear  Editor:  Have  just  finished  the  May  ish  of 

Startling  and  (ahem)  TEV.  You  were  waiting  you 
said,  to  read  the  scorching  words  the  females  would 
pour  in  a deluge  on  Jack  Clements?  Well,  you  can’t 
say  he  didn’t  ask  for  it 

"Gushy”  females  indeed!  Is  man’s  conceit  so  great 
that  he  considers  himself  the  only  bearer  of  wor^  (rf 
wisdom?  Is  his  silly  prattling  so  different,  not  gwshy, 
simply  because  he  bears  the  title  man?  I think  not.  If 
Jack  will  glance  over  TEV  and  TRS  he  will  find  quite 
a few  goofy — er-r-r — gushy  males. 

In  re-reading  mr.  elements  letter  I find  no  gushi- 
nes3,  it’s  true;  but — and  I trust  you  were  waiting  for 


136  STARTLING  STORIES 


this — his  rambling  comments  on.  other  people’s  letters 
was  rather  childish.  (I  bet  he  stays  up  nights  think- 
ing of  clever  things  to  say.)  A person  is  entitled  to 
write  and  think  what  he  wants  to  about  another  indi- 
vidual, but  what  do  we  care? 

I don't  expect  people  to  believe  what  I say  is  Gospel 
truth — they  have  their  opinions,  I'll  stick  to  mine.  I 
might  try  to  persuade  them,  and  they  might  try  to 
change  my  mind.  But  I am  not  in  the  habit  of  con- 
tinually reversing  my  viewpoint  as  Jack  so  glibly 
states. 

And  for  your  info.  Jack.  I wouldn’t  get  near  knitting 
needles  with  a ten  foot  pole.  I can  find  much  better 
ways  to  pass  time,  such  as  planning  cruel  tortures  for 
the  man-beast.  I.  E.:  tying  his  hands  down  before  he 
tells  a fish  story. 

This  mild  explosion  doesn’t  leave  me  much  space 
for  comment  on  this  ish,  but  the  lack  of  wordage 
doesn't  mean  I was  disappointed.  On  the  contrary: 
“The  Mask  of  Circe”  i.s  the  finest  thing  Hank  has  done 
in  a long  time.  The  others?  Well,  they  were  all  good, 
in  my  opinion,  except  for  "The  Simple  Life.”  “No  Es- 
cape From  Destiny”  was  a little  different  from  the 
usual  yam — a clever  whodunit.  Finlay’s  “centaurs” 
was  the  best  illustration. — 22200  Lemon  Ave.,  Hayward, 
Calif. 


Okay,  Jerri,  you  made  a meal  of  elements, 
all  right.  As  a matter  of  fact,  modern  psy- 
chologists have  advanced  a very  reasonable 
theory  to  explain  so-called  mental  change- 
ability among  the  females  of  the  species. 

Their  idea  is  that  women,  if  anything, 
change  their  minds  with  much  less  frequency 
than  men  but  that — thanks  to  their  biological 
role — they  don’t  like  to  commit  themselves 
and  therefore  are  apt  to  indulge  in  a lot  of 
backing  and  filling  before  making  up  their 
m.inds. 

Once  the  decision  is  made,  however, 
women  have  a tendency  to  stick  to  it  through 
the  proverbial  hell  and  high  water.  Anyone 
who  has  watched  a woman  try  to  select  a 
luncheon  or  dinner  from  a crowded  menu 
should  get  the  idea. 

Guess  we  men  will  have  to  wield  the 
knitting  needles  from  now  on.  Knit  one,  purl 
two,  drop  six — that’s  us. 

SOUNDS  DULL 

by  Sam  Bowne 

Dear  Editor:  I don’t  usually  write  to  editors  but  I 
want  to  congratulate  you  on  publi^iing  a Merritt-type 
story  without  nsnnphomaniacs  in  “The  Mask  of  Circe.” 
The  whole  mag  seems  to  be  looking  up  since  I started 
reading  it  during  the  war  and  this  ish  is  the  high- 
est point  yet 

Kuttner  Is  an  excellent  writer,  but  can  you  induce 
him  to  get  a new  plot.  This  dual-personality-in-a- 
strange-world  thing  has  been  done  by  Merritt,  ad 
nauseum  by  Van  Vogt  and  even,  I believe,  by  Shaver. 
If  he  wishes  to  continue  using  this  plot  I have  it 
worked  out  in  a neat  formula.  There  are  four  possible 
variations,  all  of  which  have  been  used. 

Re  Dan  Muleahy’s  letter  in  this  ish,  why  don't  you 
cut  out  the  Hall  of  Fame  and  enlarge  even  more  your 
fan  facilities.  Or  even  just  scratch  Hall  of  Fame.  The 
old  writers  don't  stack  up  wito  the  new  ones,  you 
yourself  have  said  it  and  the  latest  offering  is  riper 
than  limburger. 

First  our  hero  shoots  lead  slugs  thru  the  little  man, 
then  he  breaks  his  toe  on  him.  After  this  the  little 
man  sticks  his  hand  right  thru  the  hero,  with  no  re- 
sistance, and  tiien  picks  up  a corpse.  That’s  just  a 
start  on  the  criticism. 


Aside  from  this  lemon,  a swell  issue.  Please,  more 
G.  O.  Smith.  Hiis  isn’t  his  best,  but  we  know  what 
he’s  capable  of  and  he  writes  a t3?^  of  “pure”  science- 
fiction  that  Is  dear  to  my  heart.  It’s  good  to  see  him 
in  print  again. — 18  Lexington  Avenue  CamM.dge, 
Massachusetts. 


What — no  nymphomaniacs!  It  seems  to  us 
Kuttner  substituted  the  real  article — namely 
nymphs  themselves.  Next  time,  send  us  your 
four  plot  variations  and  we’ll  try  to  add  a few 
more.  Fanzine  editors  please  copy. 

CHICKEN  HEARTED 

by  Marvin  Williams 

Dear  Ed:  Gad  sir  you  have  offended  all  that  is  sacred 
to  the  glorious  clan  of  STF.  The  MASK  OF  CIRCE 
was  about  the  best  thing  Hank  ever  turned  out  but  it 
was  not  scientifiction.  It  was  purely  and  unquestion- 
ably fantasy.  I did  like  it  though.  Unique  idea  all 
around.  I have  never  worshipped  Kuttner  as  some  do 
but  I’m  gradually  changing  my  opinion. 

The  Finlay  pics  were  swell  too.  He’s  getting  better 
all  the  time.  I agree  with  Sneary,  thoiigh.  Stevens  is 
good,  better  and  best  in  the  art  line.  I wonder  what 
would  happen  if  the  artists  wrote  the  yams  for  one  is- 
sue and  the  writera  did  the  art  work.  The  probable 
fesult  would  be  the  demolishing  of  both  the  magazine 
and  you. 

I can’t  start  reading  THE  HOUSE  OF  RISING 
WINDS  because  I'm  too  chicken-hearted  to  look  at 
that  hideous  concoction  of  flower-faced  BE]^  on  the 
first  page.  I looked  at  it  once  while  glancing  through 
the  book  and  I’m  still  a little  shaky.  Oh  well,  maybe 
when  I attempt  to  start  it  next  time  I’ll  cover  up  the 
illo'.  Of  course  I'm  a little  hardened  to  such  things 
after  reading  H.  P.  Lovecraft’s  THE  COLOUR  OUT 
OF  SPACE.  Infinity  ran  wild  with  that  gL^. 

By  the  way,  I wrote  Wilkie  Conner  a short  curt  let- 
ter telling  him  what  I thought  of  him  for  his  views  of 
HPL  and  he  wrote  back  and  we’ve  been  regular  cor- 
rei^onders  ever  since.  An  odd  way  to  start  a friend- 
ship but  there  couldn’t  be  a closer  one,  hindered  as  we 
are  by  distance. 

Rather  a plentiful  swarm  of  femme-fans’  letters  in 
TEV  this  ish.  The  femmes  are  all  right  I suppose  but 
too  many  of  them  louse  up  an  otherwise  good  TEV 
section.  I agree  with  Miss  (or  Mrs.)  Goldsworthy 
about  Oona.  In  fact  I think  anything  St.  Clair  ever 
wrote  is  corny. 

She  belongs  in  a woman  s magazine  of  some  kind. 
She  brings  in  the  young  house-wife’s  views  and  blund- 
ers very  nicely  but  its  too  “ouy-gouy”  for  me.  Es^ 
cially  the  one  where  she  hides  the  space-port  in- 
vestigator under  her  pnuemoport  (correct  me  if 
that’s  not  spelled  right).  And  then  there  was  one  part 
I didn’t  quite  get.  Was  she  going  to  cut  the  Dobridust 
up  with  that  jig-saw  or  the  investigator?  Maybe  she 
and  you  and  Sneary  know  but  T’m  sure  I don’t. 

What  happened  to  Clements?  Maybe  the  shift  key 
broke  on  his  typer  or  something  Er — no— couldn’t, 
did  and  about  six  other  words  were  in  caps.  Anything 
to  attract  attention  I always  say.  But  really  JC  car- 
ried that  philosophy  a little  too  far  there,  don’t  you 
think?  If  he  ever  does  it  again  set  it  ri^t  anyway 
and  watch  him  burn. 

Jerri  Bullock  had  a tricky  letter  in  this  ish.  HPL 
was  ail  right  no  matter  what  people  say.  Her  remark 
about  the  C.  Future  comic  strip  might  be  a toought 
over  which  to  ponder. 

(HEH.  HEH)  Rick  Sneary’s  bad  spelling  is  off-set  by 
his  gleeful  antics.  He’s  a swell  guy.  I know  him 
from  correspondence  and  if  you  think  the  way  he  spells 
when  he  writes  to  you  is  bad,  you  should  see  the 
way  he  spells  in  the  letters  he  writes  to  me.  He  makes 
an  effort  to  spell  right  when  he  writes  in  to  the  mags. 

Well,  I’ll  be  looking  forward  to  some  swell  issues  of 
both  SS  and  TWS  this  year  and  I can’t  wait  ’til  that 
McDowell  yam  comes  out.  He’s  really  good  and  he's 
been  a favorite  of  mine  for  ages. — 1431  2nd  Avenue 
S.  E..  Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa. 


Scared  of  a Finlay  BEM,  eh?  You’re  a 
character,  un  type,  as  our  French  cousins  say. 


THE  ETHEB 

SON  OF  A BEM 

by  Mrs.  Eva  Firestone 


Dear  Editor:  *nie  verse  sent  in  and  your  rhymes  in 
answer  are  greatly  enjoyed.  Most  of  the  letters  are 
so  clever  that  my  courage  never  became  great  enough 
to  join  in  the  ftin  until  this  May  issue.  There  is  one 
Ethergram — Sir  Clemency  rushes  in  where  Angels 
fe^  to  tread!  Of  all  the  futile-feuds,  worse  than  re- 
ligious war!  I marvel  at  his  intricate-intrepidity. 
Jackie  Boy,  thinkest  thou  art  Daniel  of  Bible  fame? 

Attention  Girls!  Genealogy  is  my  avocation.  If  you 
will  send  all  known  informaticm  re  the  name  Clements, 
I will  trace  his  lineage  to  scnne  obnoxious  BEfii, 
and  furnish  photostatic  proof. 

Lin  Carter — Pardon  me,  we  ARE  interested  in  com- 
ments on  the  stori^  by  ALL  the  letter  writeis.  Jc« 
Ktochnick — about  ten  years  ago  an  author  stated, 
via  fiction,  that  the  earth  was  a microbe  in  the  blcMxi 
^eam  of  a mi^ty  giant,  so  perhaps  space  is  that 
fluid  whidi  circulates  in  the  heart,  arteries  and  veins 
this  Titan  and  his  food  of  course  would  create  space 
— savvy? 

The  »3o  over  Merritt-Kuttner,  5^tasy-Stf — is  it 
possible  for  a normal  mother  to  love  one  clUld  more 
than  another?  In  April  TWS  G«Qe  A.  Hyde  wanted 
advice  on  how  to  rotate  a cube  simult^eously  on 
three  axes.  My  request  is  much  more  simple — astron- 
omers believe  that  our  a^ar  system  is  a part  of  the 
Milky  Way  galaxy,  and  they  have  discovered  no  other 
sun-star  having  planet  sat^lites.  In  this  ease,  oar 
earth  is  mi^ty  important. 

Now — if  the  universe  Is  a sphere,  where  is  otH* 
galaxy  located,  on  the  surface  of  tiie  universe-sjrfbere 
OP  inside?  And  what  about  all  tiie  other  galaxies?? — 
P.  O.  Box  #395,  Upton,  Wyoming 


Little  Eva,  you  sprang  a couple  of  real 
rugged  questions  in  the  tail  of  your  epistle. 
You’d  better  drop  a letter  to  the  head  man  at 
Mt  Palomar  or  to  Professor  Albert  Einstein, 
Mercer  Street,  Princeton,  New  Jersey. 

Who  says  our  old  Sol  has  the  only  planets? 
We’d  like  a double  check  on  that 


SOUR  NOTE 

by  Philip  Collins 


Dear  Ed;  Why  vrtiy  <hd  you  haw  to  in 

‘‘The  Mask  of  Circe,”  and  “No  Escape  from  Destiny’*t 
If  ymi  ^fc  my  opinion,  (Ycrti’re  gcmna  get  It  anyway) 
they  were  a couple  of  grade  B l^nons.  Espi^aUy 
"No  Escape  from  Destiny,"  The  plot  was  diHl  and 
it  seemed  that  it  would  be  better  fitted  in  some 
detective  mystery  magazine.  I had  to  f<»ce  mys^f  to 
plow  throu^  it  and  when  1 was  finished,  it  wasn't 
worth  the  hxmble. 

"The  Mask  of  Circe"  was  a little  better,  but  it  was 
slow  and  sticky  too,  and  my  childirii  mind  just 
couldn’t  understand  what  the  dam  thing  was  all 
about.  And,  just  to  sound  good  and  sour,  I thought 
that  the  ending  was  poor,  and  left  you  hanging  in  the 
air,  because  I kept  mumbling  over  and  over,  "What 
happais  to  poor  demented  old  Jay  when  he  does  get 
back  to  the  island?" 

But,  thank  goodness,  there  was  something  to  hold 
up  these  two  poor  stories,  and  that  was  the  short 
stories.  I thought  that  "The  Microscopic  Giants"  was 
one  swell  piece  of  writing,  and  I can  easily  understand 
why  it  is  a Hall  of  Fame  Classic.  But  there  was 
just  one  thing  wrong  wifii  it  (as  usual)  and  that 
that  I would  sort  of  like  to  know  what  happened  io 
file  little  men,  and  what  their  life  was  like,  way 
down  under  all  that  rock.  It  certainly  would  be  a 
good  idea  if  it  were  possible,  if  a sequel  could  be 
done,  even  if  it  were  not  by  the  same  author. 

Well  I guess  that’s  enough  about  the  stories,  and  so 
let’s  talk  about  the  illustrations.  It  se^ns  that  "Virgil 
Finlay  has  a monopoly,  and  hardly  anyone  else  got 
any  of  iheir  work  in.  It’S  not  that  I don't  like  Fin- 
lay’s work,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  his  drawings  are 


VIBRATES  137 

sort  of  cluttered,  and  with  tpo  many  lin^  in  them. 

In  other  words,  his  work  just  isn’t  fre^-looking, 
smd  just  to  illustrate  my  point,  take  a look  at  the  pic 
illustrating  “After  the  Atom,"  and  that  is  what  I 
mean  aboiit  fresher  work,  although  I doubt  if  any- 
one win  agree  with  me.  But  not  on  such  a critical 
side,  I thought  that  this  months  STARTLING  STORIES 
0®  fiae  whole,  pretty  dam  good  reading. — 1381 
Kmg  Street,  West,  Toronto t Ontario. 


Well,  Philip-with-one-1,  you’ve  a right  to 
your  opinions.  In  fact,  we  could  make  a 
couple  of  suggestions  about  what  you  should 
do  with  them — always  excepting  the  one  on 
Astarita. 

OUR  OWN  NON-KENTUCKY  DERBY 

by  Peter  Leyva 


Dear  Editor:  Well,  here  I am  again  with  another 
epistolary  clinker  direct^  at  your  factory.  I^et  that 
be  wamiz^  enou^. 

"You  pays  your  money  and  you  takes  your  choice, 
was  rmt  said  of  the  ^ort  of  kings  alone.  For,  having 
paid  my  twenty  pfennigs  fw:  the  current  i^ue  of  May’s 
STARTLING  STORIES  I deem  it  my  constitutional 
privilege  to  take  (or  make)  my  ciutice  of  stories  in 
the  issue  referred  to. 

My  mention  of  the  so-called  “sport  of  kings"  gives 
me  an  idea  of  trying  my  hand  at  rating  the  May 
numb^  in  an  equine  (please,  no  gags)  manner.  Witii 
your  kind  permission,  then— 


May  Issue  Handicap 
Purse:  10,000  lUck  &ieary  lettors 


HOBS^ 

Ihe  Ma^  Of  Qrce 
The  Microscopic  Giants 
No  E^ape  From  Destiny 
The  House  Rising  Winds 
Journey 

After  The  Atom 
The  Seekers 
Ilie  Simpie  Life 


JOCKEY 

ODDS 

H.  Kuttner 

4-5 

Pacd  Ernst 

2-1 

A.  L.  Zagat 

3-1 

Fv  B.  Long 

8-1 

G.  O.  Smith 

8-1 

J.  E.  Feam 

10-1 

R.  M.  Williams 

20-1 

Say  Cummings 

6-1 

HORSE  COMMENT 

The  Mask  Of  C^rce  Rates  nod 

The  Micaroscopic  Giants  Steady  going  HofF  entry 

No  Escape  From  Destiny  Good  if  ready 

The  Hoise  Of  Riszi^  Win<b  Can  upset 

Journey  In  and  outer  ^ 

After  The  Atixn  Hard  to  figure 

The  Seekers  docker’s  tip 

The  Simple  Life  Not  much  of  late 


Note;  Ere  tiie  race  starts  "Bet-A-Milli<ai"  Leyva  is 
observed  sneaking  over  to  the  two  buck  window  and 
investing  a brace  of  iron  m&\  on  “T^e  Mask  Of 
Circe"  to  show.  Smug  and  confid^t  he  awaits  the 
result  of  file  contest 

Running  Description:  By  dembake  McCarthy. 

"And  they’re  off!!!  And  it’s  The  Mask  Of  Circe 
going  to  the  front,  closely  followed  by  The  Microscoj^c 
Giants  witii  Journey  running  third.  The  others  are 
closely  bunched.  It’s  a close  race,  so  far,  folks,  but  I 
see  they're  starting  to  ^>en  dayli^t  between  each 
other  now! 

"Here  comes  Long  on  the  House  Of  Rising  Winds 
passing  the  leaders  like  a cyclone!  The  favorite  is 
fading  badly  but  Kuttner  by  great  riding  ability 
manages  to  kej^  him  in  contention!  And  at  the  half 
mile  post  it’s  The  House  Of  Rising  Winds,  one  length 
to  tile  good,  over  The  Microscopic  Giants,  by  two 
lengths,  over  The  Mask  Of  Circe,  by  half  a lengto, 
over  Journey,  by  a head,  over  The  Seekers,  by  five 
lengths,  over  The  Simple  Life,  by  eight  lengths,  over 
No  Escape  FrcHn  Destiny,  by  tiiree  lengths,  over  Aft^ 
The  Atom!! 

(Concluded  on  page  145) 


REVIEW  OF  THE 
SCIENCE  FICTION  FAN 
TCELICATIONS 


tr  IS  possible  that  we  have  been  asking 
for  it  all  along — though  we  don’t  see 
just  how.  At  any  rate,  this  time  the  roof 
fell  in.  We  were  getting  just  about  our  usual 
quota  of  fanzines  and  stashing  them  in  the 
bottom  desk  drawer  (the  double  one)  for 
perusal  and  review  and  minding  our  rather 
multifarious  other  affairs  and  treating  the 
whole  thing  as  routine. 

Then  came  a big  envelope  from  Charles 
E.  Burbee  of  the  Los  Angeles  Burbees.  Upon 
opening  it  we  discovered  it  packed  with  fan- 
zines. This  recalled  to  us  that  we  had  re- 
ceived a similarly  packed  envelope  some 
months  earlier  (with  no  return  address)  and 
had  been  holding  it  with  modest  impatience 
as  a tardy  submission  to  our  ill-fated  fanzine 
contest. 

Actually,  it  seems,  each  batch  was  a com- 
plete mailing  of  the  Fantasy  Amatexir  Press 
Association,  sent  in  for  review.  This  outfit 
is  known  to  the  initiate  as  FAPA  and  shad  be 
so  called  henceforth  in  this  column.  Its  mem- 
bers apparently  get  up  fanzines  and  mail 
them  around  to  other  members  as  material 
for  critical  letters  which  are  included  in 
(and  often  completely  monopolize)  futxire 
issues. 

So  there  we  were  with  two  FAPA  mailings 
on  top  of  our  regular  review  material.  Re- 
gretfully (our  foot!)  we  stashed  the  earlier 
mailing  as  passe  and  decided  to  concentrate 
on  the  latter  group.  Then  came  another  slue 
of  fanzines,  apparently  from  some  lightweight 
affiliate  of  FAPA  called  the  SAPS  (don’t  ask 
us  what  that  stands  for) — whose  publishers 
call  their  fanzines  Sapzines.  And  finally  we 
got  an  SOS  from  the  British  Fantasy  Library, 
a laudable  organization  to  which  we  are 
going  to  give  first  place  in  the  column  that 
follows. 

We  have  waded  through  all  the  above  men- 
tioned mailings  and  have  decided,  in  view  of 
the  highly  personal  nature  of  most  of  the 
Fapazines  and  Sapszines,  to  list  them  in  toto 


but  to  pass  critical  word  only  on  the  few 
that  seem  outstandingly  good. 

So — to  work. 

Our  friends  in  the  British  Isles  have,  as  we 
all  know,  been  suffering  from  an  acute  stf 
famine  along  with  their  other  more  serious  a 
(?)  shortages.  Since  many  of  the  books  and 
magazines  published  during  the  recent  war 
are  virtually  unobtainable,  a group  of  lead- 
ing fans  has  organized  a library  from  which 
members  can  borrow  those  publications  and 
books  they  desire  to  read. 

Ron  Holmes,  67  Lineside  Road,  Belle  Vale, 
Liverpool,  is  Librarian;  Nigel  Lindsay,  311 
Babbacombe  Road,  Babbacombe,  Torquay, 
Devonshire,  is  Current  Issues  Department 
Director  and  Captain  K.  F.  Slater,  of  the 
British  Army,  who  may  be  reached  through 
Miss  Joyce  Teagle,  Riverside,  South  Drink, 
Wisbech,  Cambridgeshire,  is  Liaison  (infor- 
mation) Director. 

Mr.  Holmes,  along  with  a letter  explain- 
ing the  purpose  of  the  Library,  has  sent  us 
a handbook,  a catalogue  and  full  sets  of  re- 
ports and  library  listings.  He  has  done  a 
whale  of  a job  but  there  are  still  a lot  of 
gaping  holes  in  the  stock  of  books  and  maga- 
zines on  hand. 

“I  think,”  he  saiys,  “that  you  will  agree 
with  me  when  I state  that  to  a great  measure 
I have  carried  out  what  I set  out  to  do.  To 
give  fans  that  which  they  need  at  the  lowest 
possible  cost  to  themselves  by  the  only  reaUy 
applicable  scheme,  cooperation.” 

We  quite  agree  with  him  and  hope  that 
some  of  you,  perhaps  with  an  embarrassment 
of  fan  riches,  will  see  fit  to  offer  help  in  the 
f jrm  of  magazines  or  books.  As  we  cannot 
print  the  catalogue  we  suggest  you  write 
Mr.  Holmes  before  sending  him  anything, 
thus  making  sure  you  are  offering  needed 
material — or  you  might  address  your  letter 
to  Forrest  J.  Ackerman,  236%  North  New 
Hampshire,  Hollywood  4,  California,  who  has 
some  of  the  handbooks  and  catalogues  for 
distribution  in  this  country. 

138 


This  is  a good  one  to  get  aboard — ^you’ll 
not  only  be  doing  a needed  service  but  your 
offerings  will  be  gratefully  received  and 
you’U  have  an  unparalled  opportunity  to 
widen  your  fan  connections  to  an  inter- 
national scope.  Go  to  it. 


THE  PAPA  OFFERINGS 

Heading  the  Faparade  is  THE  FANTASY 
AMATEUR,  so-called  official  organ  of  the 
association,  containing  news  of  interest  to 
members,  announcements  and  an  enclosed 
poll- card  on  which  the  member  is  supposed 
to  list  his  favorite  thisa  and  thata  on  various 
elements  of  the  ’zines  put  out  by  his  fellows. 

In  hot  pur  suit  come  a highly  mathematical 
pamphlet  on  THE  RATING  OF  ROCKET 
FUELS  by  Thomas  S.  Gardner  of  Johnson 
City,  Tennessee — a page  from  a Harvard 
University  Mathematics  examination,  ap- 
parently algebraic  in  origin  and  neatly 
stamped  at  the  bottom  with  No.  56 — a four- 
pager  by  Ray  C.  Higgs  of  Connorsville,  In- 
diana, entitled  LONE  INDIAN  FRATER- 
NITY ORIGINATES  AND  SPONSORS 
PLAN  TO  ABOLISH  ADULT  AND  CHILD 
DELINQUENCY  (sounds  dull,  doesn’t  it?) — 
quotations  from  Spengler  and  comment  on 
that  ancient  vehicle  of  the  cinema.  Metropolis, 
by  Robert  Raphael — something  called  A 
VISIT  FROM  GRAHAM  put  out  by  Rick 
Sneary  of  South  Gate,  California — a highly 
useful  FANTASY  ANTHOLOGY  INDEX 
put  out  by  Sam  Moskowitz  and  Alex  Osheroff 
at  446  Jelliff  Avenue.  Newark  8,  New  Jersey 
—and  an  obsolete  1947  DREAMLAND  POLL 
by  Don  Wilson  and  Howard  Miller  from  495 
North  Third  Street,  Banning,  California. 
Heterogeny,  thy  name  is  FAPA. 

BURBLINGS.  Charles  Burbee,  1057  South  Normandie 
Avenue.  Los  Angeles  6.  California. 

BE  IT  KNOWNKE  TO  ALL.  Harold  W.  Cheney  Jr.,  no 
visible  address. 

FAN-DANGO,  Francis  T.  Laney,  816  Westboro  Avenue, 
Alhambra,  California. 

FAPASNIX,  Walter  A.  Coslet,  Box  #6,  Helena,  Mon- 
tana. 

GLOM,  Forrest  J.  Ackerman,  236*/^  North  New  Hamp- 
shire, Hollywood  4,  California. 

GOSTAK,  Don  Bratton,  no  address  visible. 

H-1661,  Hevelin,  3761  Third  Street,  Riverside,  Cali- 
fornia. 

HORIZONS.  Harry  Warner  Jr.,  303  Bryan  Place,- 
Hagerstown,  Maryland. 

ICHOR,  Dale  Hart,  Apt.  20,  1116  Georgia  Street,  Los 
Angeles  15,  California. 

(reviewed  later  in  A-list) 

JABBERWOCKY,  Paul  Spencer.  88  Ardmore  Hoad, 
West  Hartford,  Connecticut. 

MI  SCRIBAS,  Rick  Sneary.  2962  Santa  Ana  Street, 
South  Gate,  California. 

(contains  a portion  of  excellent  magazine 
bibliography  in  serial) 

LIGHT,  Leslie  A.  Croutch,  Box  #121,  Parry  Sound, 
Ontario.  Canada. 

(reviewed  later  in  A-list) 

[Turn  page] 

139 


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» A LAUGH  ON  EVERY  PAGE  OF 

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Featuring  America's  Funniest  Cartoonists 

NOW  ON  SALE-25C  AT  ALL  STANDSI 


MASQUE,  William  Rotsler,  Camarillo,  California, 
(reviewed  later  in  A-list) 

MOONSHINE,  Len  J.  Moffatt,  5918  Lanto  Street.  Ball 
Gardens,  California. 

(reviewed  later  in  A-Iist) 

EGO  BEAST,  Don  Wilson,  495  North  Third  Street, 
Banning.  California. 

OLD  AND  RARE,  G.  F.  Caldwell,  San  Anselmo, 
California. 

ONE  FAN’S  OUTLOOK,  Stan  Woolston,  12832  South 
West  Street,  Garden  Grove,  California. 

PHANTEUR,  D.  B.  Thompson,  Imperial,  Nebraska, 
(reviewed  later  in  A-list) 

PLENUM,  Milton  A.  Rothman,  2113  North  Franklin 
Street,  Philadelphia  22,  Pennsylvania. 

(reviewed  later  in  B-Ust. 

SKY  HOOK,  Redd  Boggs,  2215  Benjamin  Street,  N.E., 
Minneapolis  18,  Minnesota. 

(reviewed  later  in  A-list) 

SPARX,  Henry  M.  Spelman  III,  Leverett  House  E-21, 
Cambridge  38,  Massachusetts. 

(reviewed  later  in  A-list) 

SOlPDALGEIF,  R.  P.  Graham,  H.  Miller.  D.  V/ilson, 
R.  Ward  and  C.  Burbee,  no  address. 

SYNAPSE,  Jack  Speer,  4518  16th  N.E.,  Seattle  5, 
Washington. 

THREE  EYE,  no  name  or  address  listed. 

YELLUM,  Ron  Maddox,  c/o  A.  H.  Garretson,  Ministry 
of  Foreign  Affiars,  Addis  Abba,  Ethiopia. 


Which  takes  care  of  the  FAPA  horror — 
save  for  those  magazines  which  Vv^e  feel  rate 
an  A-listing  review.  Now  for  that  Sapszine 
grue — we  find  at  last  that  SAPS  stands  for 
Spectator  Amateur  Press  Society,  whatever 
that  means! 


BLUE  BEM,  Joe  Kennedy,  84  Baker,  Dover  2,  New 
Jersey. 

EGOBOO.  Joe  Schaumburger,  1822  Bathgate  Avenue, 
Bronx  57,  New  York. 

ESSENTIAL,  no  name  or  address  listed. 

BRILLIG,  Joe  Schaumburger,  1822  Bathgate  Avenue, 
Bronx  57,  New  York. 

FROZINE,  Phil  Froeder,  448  Demarest  Avenue.  Closter, 
New  Jersey. 

JOSE-PIEN,  Joe  Gross,  no  address  listed. 

NAMLEPS,  Henry  M.  Spelman  III,  Leverett  House 
E-21,  Cambridge  38,  Massachusetts. 

QUEER,  Norm  Storer,  1724  Mississippi  Street,  Lawrence 
Kansas. 

FLOOR.  Walter  A.  Coslet,  Box  #6,  Helena,  Montana. 

SUN  SHINE,  no  name  or  address  listed. 

THE  HANDS  and  OTPIERS,  H.  Cheney,  Little  Falls, 
New  York. 

(somehow  we  think  this  little  booklet  got  into 
the  SAPS  by  mistake) 

TAILS  OF  PASSIONATE  FANS,  no  name  or  address 
listed. 

TRUE  FAN  CONFESSIONS,  Joe.  Kennedy,  84  Baker 
Avenue,  Dover,  New  Jersey. 

(rates  a B-list  review  but  won’t  get  it) 

TWIN  STAR  PUBLICATIONS,  no  name  or  address 
listed. 


This  is  about  as  sub-sophomoric  a gang  of 
amateur  publications  as  we  have  run  across 
while  sitting  at  this  or  any  other  desk.  But, 
since  most  of  those  who  put  in  time  and 
energy  composing  these  little  gems  are  prob- 
ably a bit  on  the  sub-sophomore  side(  we 
query  the  gentleman  of  Leverett  House)  they 
undoubtedly  get  a belt  out  of  the  proceed- 
ings. We  hope  somebody  did. 

But  before  hitting  the  A-B  trail,  we  wish 
to  give  a pat  on  the  head  to  Captain  K.  F. 
Slater  for  his  OPERATION  FANTAST,  the 
liveliest  fanzine  to  come  out  of  England  in 
too  many  a long  moon.  We  hope  that 
wherever  the  gallant  captain  is  sent  on  over* 


140 


seas  duty  he  will  be  able  to  get  at  a printing 
press  or  mimeograph  machine.  His  efforts 
for  British  and  World  fandom  will  be  missed 
otherwise. 

Well,  the  A-list  took  a large  upward  leap 
for  itself  this  month,  thanks  in  part  to  the 
FAPA  mailings.  It’s  one  of  the  best  we’ve 
had  to  review. 


CANADIAN  FANDOM,  No.  14,  118  St.  George 
Street,  Toronto  5,  Ontario.  Editor,  Beak  Taylor. 
Published  irregularly,  10c  per  copy,  3 copies  25c, 

Dr.  David  H.  Keller’s  THE  LANDSLIDE,  a new  short 
story  by  the  eminent  master,  features  this  issue  of  a 
very  up-and-coming  ’zine  and  other  articles  and 
features  are  contributed  by  the  editor,  Fred  Hxmfer  Jr„ 
Barbara  Brovad,  Les  Croutch,  Bill  Grant,  Harry  Moore, 
D.  J.  Morantz  and  Alastair  Cameron.  Jim  Gray  and 
an  anonymous  other  contribute  fair  verse.  Clipped  to 
the  Issue  like  a pilot  fish  was  a small  and  informative 
booklet  called  TORQUE,  giving  dope  on  the  Toronto 
Fan  convention  of  July  Fourth  weekend. 

DREAM  QUEST,  495  North  Third  Street,  Ban- 
ning, California.  Editor,  Don  Wilson.  Published 
irregularly,  15c  per  copy,  2 copies  25c. 

Another  good  issue  chalked  up  for  this  crew,  though 
we  found  Laney’s  Histo-Map  of  Fandom  more  a pro- 
moter of  utter  confusion  than  elucidating.  We  liked 
on  the  whole  the  somewhat  exhaustive  prozine  review 
of  Gilbert  Sweason,  got  a chuckle  out  of  Arthur  Rapp’s 
remarks  on  our  own  Margaret  St.  Clair,  found  Sim- 
mons a trifle  pontiflcial  for  our  taste  and  enjoyed 
Rothman,  Gordon  Elliott  and  Thyril  Ladd — ^finally 
found  ourselves  inescapably  perturbed  by  the  final 
verse  of  Marjorie  Nuttall’s  verse. 


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FAN-DANGO,  816  Westboro  Avenue,  Alham- 
bra, California.  Editor,  Francis  T.  Laney.  Pub- 
lished quarterly.  No  price  listed. 

The  frenetic  Fran  Laney  puts  on  a one-man  show, 
airing  more  Los  Angeles  fandirt  than  has  been  around 
since  the  old  SHANGRI  D’AFFAIRES  was  toned  down. 
His  open  letter  (after  the  style  of  such  noted  eplstleers 
as  Jimmy  Fidler  and  Louella  Parsons)  is  truly  a gem. 
He  has  some  of  the  darnedest  "friends”  if  the  letter  is 
one  eighth  accurate. 

FANTASY  ADVEBTISER,  643  South  , Bixel 
Street,  Los  Angeles  14,  California.  Editor,  Gus 
Willmorth.  Published  bi-monthly,  50c  per  year, 
2/6d  in  England. 

Still  the  bible  of  the  fancollector — enlivened^  this 
time  with  an  article  on  O.  G.  Estes,  who  drew  illus- 
trations for  one  of  the  E.  E.  Smith  Skylark  juveniles 
which  did  not  appear  when  it  was  published.  Also 
the  pictures  themselves,  which  are  friendly  amateur 
Pauls.  Cartoons,  which  are  interspersed  among  the 
various  collectors’  lists,  are  generally  bright  and 
amusing.  Good  stuif. 

FANTASY  REVIEW,  115  Wanstead  Road,  Il- 
ford, Essex.  Editor,  Walter  Gillings.  Published 
bi-monthly,  3/6d  per  annum  in  England  & Do- 
minions (except  Canada).  75c  in  U.  S.  and  Can- 
ada. Single  copies,  15c  post  free. 

Just  about  the  most  adult,  alert  and  Informed  gazette 
in  the  entire  field — with  a surprisingly  Transatlantic 
viewpoint.  This  time  Editor  Gillings’  feature  article 
is  a well  drawn  if  too-brlef  typewriter  sketch  of  what 
happened  to  the  motion  picture  In  Germany  between 
1913  and  1933 — more  specifically  the  prophetic  motibn 
picture.  Dr.  Siegfried  Kracauer’s  “From  Caligari  to 
Hitler”  supplies  the  basis  for  the  piece.  We  wish  we 
had  Gillins  and  a FANTASY  REVIEW  in  this  country 
instead  of  what  we  are  getting. 

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FANTASY  COMMENTATOR,  19  East  235th 
Street,  New  York  66,  New  York.  Editor,  A. 
Langley  Searles.  Published  quarterly,  25c  per 
copy,  five  copies  $1.00. 

Livened  (?)  by  pictures  of  the  late  H.  P.  Lovecraft’s 
maternal  grandparents  and  of  the  author  as  a little 
boy  (unlike  Raymond  Knight,  he  apparently  failed 
to  pose  as  a little  girl  as  well),  this  is  the  usual 
scholarly,  erudite  and  occasionally  heavyweight  fan- 
zine entry.  Sam  Moskowitz’  colossal  history  of  stfan- 
dom  carries  on  its  intallment  way  and  the  rest  of  the 
issue  is  given  over  to  Lovecraftiana.  Worth  its  list 
price. 

PAPASNIX,  Box  #6,  Helena,  Montana.  Editor, 
Walter  A.  Coslet.  Published  irregularly,  10c  per 
copy,  four  copies  25c. 


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This  Fapazine  rates  the  list  chiefly  because  of  its 
well  documented  prozine  list.  We  hope  the  editor 
keeps  it  up. 

ICHOR,  1116  Georgia  Street,  Los  Angeles  15, 
California.  Editor,  Dale  Hart.  Published  irreg- 
ulatrly.  No  price  listed. 

Best  poetry  ’zine  we  have  seen  in  some  time.  Bright 
all  the  way,  if  sophomoric  in  spots  and  with  the  best 
cover  of  the  current  crop. 

IF!,  705  West  Kelso,  Ingle-wood,  California. 
Editor,  Conrad  Pederson.  Published  irregularly. 
10c  per  copy,  six  copies  50c. 

Joe  Kennedy,  with  a nostalgic  entry,  Sam  Mosko- 
witz, with  a clever  bit  of  pseudo-drama,  and  Don 
Wilson,  with  a backhand  slash  at  Mr.  Derleth,  head  a 
generally  interesting  group  of  entries.  Modestly  printed 
but  good  content. 


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142 


LIGHT,  Box  #121,  Parry  Sound,  Ontario, 
Canada.  Editor,  Leslie  A.  Croutch,  published 
irregularly,  10c  per  copy. 

Amusing  amateur  stuff  surroimding  the  usual  good 
reviews  of  various  books  and  pamphlets  with  stf 
interest. 

MASQUE,  Camarillo,  California.  Editor,  Wil- 
liam Rotsler.  Published  irregularly.  No  price 
listed. 

Copy  in  this  one  is  weighed  down  by  an  inter- 
minabie  essay  on  “art” — ^but  the  issue  contains  the 
most  imaginative  and  successful  fan  color  printing 
we  have  yet  seen. 

MOONSHINE,  5918  Lanto  Street,  Bell  Gar- 
dens, California.  Editor,  Len  J.  Moffatt.  Pub- 
lished quarterly,  no  price  listed. 

Sub-sub-sophomorlc  fun  in  pictures,  prose  and 
poerty  which  somehow  manages  to  get  by  on  its  spirit, 
to  say  nothing  of  what  everyone  seems  to  think  is  a 
half  dollar  attached  to  the  front  cover  (it  isn’t). 

MUTANT,  113  North  Porter  Street,  Saginaw, 
Michigan.  Editor,  Bill  Groover.  Published  ir- 
regularly, 10c  per  copy,  six  copies  50c. 

George  Young,  Redd  Boogs,  Ben  Singer  and  Marion 
Zimmer  kick  the  gong  around  In  this  one  to  their 
own  great  amusement  and  the  reader’s  moderate  same. 

NECROMANCER,  1619  Eastern  Avenue,  Balti- 
more 21,  Maryland.  Editor,  David  A.  Macinnes, 
10c  per  copy,  six  copies  50c. 

Best  item  (and  a darned  good  one)  in  this  generally 
excellent  'zine  is  an  article  on  the  Frank  Reade  Jr.  stf 
magazine  of  the  nineties  with  a photo-offset  repro- 
duction of  one  of  the  covers.  And  Rex  Ward  comes  up 


with  a plea  for  space  opera  via,  of  all  things,  a lauda- 
tory review  of  our  former  companion  magazine, 
CAPTAIN  FUTURE.  Interesting. 

PLENUM,  2113  North  Franklin  Street,  Phila- 
delptda  22,  Pennsylvania.  Editor,  Milton  A. 
Rothman.  Published  irregularly,  no  price  listed. 

The  former  low  Poobah  of  the  Phllcon  comes  up 
with  a neat  F'apazine  in  which  he  discusses  the 
semantic  approach  so  dear  to  current  stfans,  carrying 
it  all  the  way  to  paranoia  (the  article,  not  the  author) . 
Thoughtful. 

SHANGRI  LA,  Apartment  #20,  1116  Georgia 
Street,  Los  Angeles  14,  California.  Editor,  Dale 
Hart.  Published  bi-monthly,  10c  per  copy,  six 
copies  50c. 

The  erstwhile  Shangri  L’ Affaires  puts  on  a sprightly 
self  imitation  in  its  curtailed-title  version  with  just 
about  as  much  (if  not  as  lurid)  controversial  stuff  as 
ever.  This  group — ^the  Los  Angeles  Science  Society, 
can  get  madder  than  anything. 

SKY  HOOK,  2215  Benjamin  Street,  N.K, 
Minneapolis  18,  Minnesota.  Editor,  Redd  Boggs. 
Published  irregularly,  no  price  listed. 

Good  thoughtful  comment  on  fantopics  which  suffers 
from  a sea  anchor  in  the  form  of  some  of  the  worst 
verse  ever  (up  to  and  including  our  own!). 

SPARX,  Leverett  House  E-21,  Cambridge  38, 
Massachusetts.  Editor,  Henry  M.  Spelman  IH. 
Published  quarterly,  10c  per  copy. 

Sophomorics  by  Jack  Speer  and  Norman  Schlecter 
are  compensated  for  by  some  good  reviews  and  some 
off-the-artn  information  of  fanzine  trading  by  Vincent 
Williams.  Just  squeaks  in  on  the  A-list. 

THE  FANSCIENT,  3435  Northeast  38th  Ave- 
nue, Portland,  Oregon.  Editor,  Don  Day.  Pub- 
lished quarterly,  15c  per  copy,  50c  per  year. 

This  miniature  mag  packs  plenty  of  meat  for  all  its 
mlcroscopia.  Leading  item  is  an  essay  on  Beauty  and 
its  penalties  by  Dr.  Keller.  We  hope  this  one  stays  in 
there. 

THE  GORGON,  4936  Grove  Street,  Denver  11, 
Colorado.  Editor,  Stanley  Mullen.  Published  bi- 
monthly, 20c  per  copy,  $1.00  per  year. 

Still  a leading  entry  in  the  field  despite  an  vmex- 
pectedly  dim  printing  job.  Phil  Rasch  has  some  fasci- 
nating background  stuff  on  Merritt’s  Brittany  and  Joe 
Kennedy’s  takeoff  on  Moskowitz’  fanhistory  verges  on 
the  riotous.  Even  Lloyd  Arthur  Eshbach  of  Fantasy 
Press  fame  cuts  in  with  a short  verse  on  vampires  of 
the  non-Clara  Kimball  Young  variety. 

VAMPIRE  INDEX,  68  Madbury  Road,  Dur- 
ham, New  Hampshire.  Editor,  Boff  Perry.  Pub- 
lished irregularly,  10c  per  copy. 

A complete  tabulation  on  what  Joe  Kennedy  man- 
aged to  put  between  the  covers  of  his  famed  and  la- 
mented fanzine.  Makes  us  homesick. 

Well,  that’s  the  A-list  and,  we  think,  a 
darned  good  one.  We’re  going  to  have  to  be 
a bit  brief  with  the  B’s  for  reasons  mentioned 


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Fantasy  Times,  101-02  Northern  Boulevard,  Corona, 
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monthly, 10c  per  copy.  Good  newsy  ’zine,  this  time 
featuring  article  on  Dr.  Keller  by  Jacob  Hudson.  Worth 
the  dime  demanded. 

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143 


The  prayers  of  the  most  worthy  people  often  fail.  Why  7 
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no  price  listed.  A newcomer  to  us,  featuring  a rather 
tripi^  story  by  Dennis  Gillespie  and  the  usual  good 
book  reviews  by  Henry  Spelman  III, 

Lunacy,  1115  San  Anselmo  Avenue,  San  Anselrao, 
California.  Editor,  George  Caldwell.  Published  irregu- 
larly, 10c  per  copy.  Frenetic  fanzine  which  takes  a 
large  bite  out  of  Ackerman  and  offers  the  resultant 
tasty  morsel  to  Edgar  Rice  Burrough.s  on  an  imitation 
silver  salver. 

Opinion,  no  address  listed.  Editors,  Don  Wilson  & 
Howard  Miller.  Supplement  to  Dream  Quest.  Contains 
interesting  fan  opinion  poll  on  just  about  everything. 
Despite  listing  of  Jack  Williamson  (instead  of  Edmond 
Hamilton)  as  author  of  Conquest  of  Two  Worlds,  a 
generally  accurate  compendium. 

Spaceteer,  1734  Newark  Street  South,  St.  Petersburg, 
Florida.  Editor,  Lin  Carter.  Published  bi-monthly,  10c 
per  copy,  three  copies,  25c.  A good  live  ’zine  which 
would  rate  A-listing  if  it  weren’t  for  the  ghastly  art- 
work. 

Spacewarp,  2120  Bay  Street,  Saginaw,  Michigan. 
Editor,  Arthur  H.  Rapp.  Published  monthly,  10c  per 
copy,  three  copies  25c.  Well,  we  presume  the  editor 
and  his  colleagues  had  fun  with  these  two  issues. 
Best'  item  in  the  April  deal  was  Marion  Zimmer’s 
proselyting  ad  seeking  famme  fanpals.  She  pleads  for 
written  words  from  shady  lad — uh-nxih — we  mean  lady 
shades. 

Stfanatic,  c/o  YMCA,  Warren,  Arkansas.  Editor, 
Hugh  Mclnnis.  Published  irregularly,  6V2C  per  copy. 
A modest  entrant  in  the  ’zine  field  wWch  falls  heir  to 
most  of  the  hekto  woes  known  to  fandom  since  time 
immemorial. 

The  Rocket  News  Letter,  91  Pine  Street,  Riverside, 
Illinois.  Editor,  Wayne  Proell.  Published  bi-monthly, 
15c  per  copy,  SI. 50  per  year.  This  one  seems  to  be 
slipping. 


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misplaced,  'null  said. 

Tympani,  514  West  Vienna  Avenue,  Milwaukee  12, 
Wisconsin.  Editors,  Robert  L.  Stein  & Redd  Boggs. 
Published  bi-weekly,  5c  per  copy,  six  copies  25c.  Good 
newszlne,  this  time  accompanied  by  a supplement 
called  Tympimi,  of  which  the  title  tells  the  story. 

Which  brings  us  to  the  end  of  the  longest 
review  column  we  have  written  to  date.  Hope 
you  liked  it! 

—THE  EDITOR. 


A NOVEL  OF  THE  FUTURE 
MR. 

ZYTZTZ 
GOES  TO 
MARS 
By  NOEL  LOOMIS 

Featured  in  the  August  Issue  of 

THRILLING  WONDER 
STORIES 

NOW  ON  SALE  AT  ALL  STANDS! 


144 


THE  ETHER  VIBRATES 

(Concluded  from  page  137) 

“Now  they've  rounded  the  turn  and  are  roaring  up 
the  home  stretch!  Oh,  the  favorite  has  faded  worse 
than  last  year's  S.S.  cover  and  is  now  running  a 
bad  fifth!  The  House  Of  Rising  Winds  still  holds  the 
lead,  by  a length,  bver — but  tally  ho!  What  is  this 
— ^it’s  The  Seekers,  coming  like  crazy!!!  He  passes  The 
Microscopic  Giants  and  challenges  The  House  Of 
Rising  Winds  for  the  lead! 

“Jockey  Long  goes  to  the  whip  to  ward  off  the 
threat  but  The  Seekers,  like  an  old  maid  looking 
underneath  the  bed  for  a burglar,  will  not  be  denied! 
It’s  a two  horse  race  now,  suck — er — ^folks!  Here  they 
come,  fighting  it  out  to  the  wire!  Wotta  race!  Wotta 
race!  But,  look!  The  Seekers  is  pulling  away!  By  a 
nose,  by  a neck,  by  half  a length!  It's  all  over,  folks! 
It’s  The  Seekers  by  a length!! I” 

Note:  Above  the  roar  of  the  madding  crowd  cometh 
the  sad  sounds  of  Kuttner’s  chalk  players  tearing  up 
their  ducats. 

Official  result  of  the  May  Issue  Handicap: 


HORSE 
The  Seekers 

The  House  Of  Rising  Winds 
The  Microscopic  Giants 
After  The  Atom 
Journey 

The  Mask  Of  Circe 
No  Escape  From  Destiny 
The  Simple  Life 


LENGTHS 

1 

3 

4 

V2 

nose 

head 

5 


Note:  The  word  “eds”  in  the  place  price  of  The 
House  Of  Rising  Winds  stands  for  “edges” — not 
“editors.”  Feel  better  now? 

So  much  for  the  races.  May  I comment  a little 
anent  T.E.V.  before  you  throw  me  out  the  door? 

As  per  usual  the  hallowed  sanctum  sanctorum  that 
is  T.E.V.  boasted  as  neat  a collection  of  screeds  as 

could  be  found  this  side  of  Alpha  Centauri.  But  as 

also  per  usual  the  remarkable  Rick  Sneary  proved  high 
man  again  on  the  T.E.V.  totem  pole.  By  the  rood,  how 
the  lad  can  clamp  a toehold  on  an  adjective  and 
make  it  holler  “uncle”  in  an  entertaining  way!  Keep 
it  up,  Rick.  (Hey,  editor!  Ain’t  there  some  way  you 
could  get  Sneary  and  Rob  Le  Roy  to  collaborate  on  a 
story — unabridged  and  unedited?  This  I want  to  see.) 

Other  good  letters  were  by  Gerry  de  la  Ree,  Van 
Couvering,  Lin  Carter,  Kirschnick,  Clements,  etc.  All 
in  all,  a fine  gathering  of  the  clans  enlivened,  as 

always,  by  the  gay  skirl  of  thy  merry  editorial  bag- 

pipe or  dinna  ye  ken  wha’  I say,  Mac  Gregor? 

As  for  the  illustrations  the  inside  pic  on  page  93 
was  far  superior  to  the  rest  of  the  art.  Really  a fine 
piece  of  work.  Cover  okay  except  that  it  seems  to 
suffer  a wee  bit  from  yellow  jaundice.  Easy  on  the 
saffron  hues,  will  ya,  Bergey? 

Finlay’s  pic  on  page  11  was  okay  also.  After 
studying  it  at  great  length  I have  suddenly  become 
unfond  of  flowers  and  the  ancient  Greek  version  of 
the  Hawaiian  lei.  And  look  at  that  dope  Pan!  All 
the  guy  can  find  to  do  (with  that  bevy  of  femmes 
around  him)  is  to  fool  with  a double-barreled  pea 
shooter  whilst  squatting  next  to  a Hellenic  spittoon. 
Is  this  the  sort  of  thing  the  Greeks  had  a word  for? 

Time  (not  the  magazine)  being  of  the  essence  and 
the  fact  that  I have  overstayed  my  visa  in  T.E.V.  I 
judge  it  most  wise  to  effect  a hurried  (though  digni- 
fied) exit  ere  you  sic  the  office  boy  on  me. 

In  the  hope  that  you  will  continue  your  good 
works  indefinitely,  I remain  yours  truly. — 221  So, 
Victoria  Ave.^  Atlantic  City,  N.  J. 


That  was  no  spittoon,  that  was  an  amphora, 
supposedly  filled  with  wine  of  Ossa,  gin  of 
Thessaly  or  rum  from  the  Sea  of  Marmora. 
Anyway,  them  nymphs  were  Aegian  the  eyes. 

And  so,  spent  by  the  thrills  of  the  Leyva 
Handicap,  we  once  again  take  leave  of  the 
Ether  and  its  matchless  Vibrations,  sailing 
into  the  sunset  with  the  valiant  little  ship 
Argo’s  mink  sails  also  set.  Evoe  and  adios. 

—THE  EDITOR. 


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145 


• Famous  titles  from  the  best‘ 

seller  lists 

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or  more  a copy 


HOW  MUCH  HOHROH 
CAN  A MAN 


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tables  to  overwhelming  evil, 
before  a man  cracks  up?  Six  times, 
in  "Six  Times  Death,”  William 
Irish  subjects  a human  being  to 
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haunting,  horrifying  stories.  A 
colleaion  of  mystery  and  sus> 
pense  stories  that  will  hold 
you  breathless! 

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POPULAR  LIBRARY  MYSTERIES 


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POPULAR  LIBRARY 


• 150  Crossword  Puzzles,  Book  Two 

• 102  Duel  In  The  Sun,  by  Niven  Busch 

• 94  The  Mortal  Storm, 


• 137  Six  Times  Death,  by  William  Irish 

• 120  The  Spiral  Staircase,  by  Ethel  Lina  White 

• 121  A Losing  Game,  by  Freeman  Wills  Crofts 

• 112  The  Black  Shrouds, 

by  Constance  & Gwenyth  Little 

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• 124  Design  In  Evil,  by  Rufus  King 

• 125  Said  The  Spider  To  The  Fly,  by  Richard  Shattuck 

• 132  Seven  Keys  To  Baldpate,  by  Earl  Derr  Biggers 

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• 130  The  Mystery  Companion,  edited  by  A.  L.  Furman 


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• 91  The  Sea-Hawk,  by  Rafael  Sabatini 


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Send  me  postpaid  the  Popular  Library  books  I 
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stamps  o6  small  denominations)  per  copy. 
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front  seat  type  illustrated  on  left.  They 
slip  on  easily  . . . you  can  install  in  a 
few  minutes.  Perfect  fit  guaranteed  or 
money  back  on  our  10-day  inspection 
plan,  Mail  the  coupon  today.  Set  of  i 
Car  Initials  given  at  no  extra  cost. 


FOR  COUPES 

and  All 
Front 
Seats 


98 


SPECIAL 


Sedans  and  Coaches 

COMPLETE 

SET 

Front  and  . 

798 

Back  Seat  ^ 

At  last  \ou  can  enjoy  the  comfortable  coolness  and  handsome 
appearance  of  beautiful  automobile  seat  covers,  expertly  tail- 
ored of  genuine  Scotch  Plaid  Fibre,  without  paying  fancy 
prices!  An  amazing  discovery,  elasticized  slip-over  sides,  now 
insures  snug,  smooth  fit  without  expensive  installation  costs. 
Over  100,000  satisfied  users  can’t  be  wrong ! These  wonderful, 
colorful  seat  covers  slip  on  in  a jiffy  . . . anyone  can  easily 
install  in  just  a few  minutes!  Often  gives  your  car  greater 
trade-in  value.  Yes,  for  a better-looking  car,  for  cooler  and 
more  comfortable  driving,  get  brand-new  seat  covers  for  your 
car  while  this  new  bargain  introductory  price  is  yours  for  the 
taking.  Mail  the  coupon  today.  Supply  is  limited. 

SEND  NO  MONEY... 

10  DAY  HOME  INSPECTION  OFFER 


If  you  need  new  automobile  seat  covers,  either  for 
front  seat  alone  or  for  front  and  back  seats,  mail 
\our  order  today.  We  fit  most  makes  and  model 
cars,  including  1948  models.  Fill  out  and  mail  the 
coupon  ...  on  arrival  pay  only  S3.98  for  front 
seat  or  S7.98  for  complete  sets  of  front  and  back 
seats,  plus  C.O.D.  postage.  Do  this  on  our  home 
inspection  offer  ...  if  not  delighted,  return  covers 
in  10  days,  and  we  will  refund  your  money.  But 
don't  wait.  This  introductory  offer  can’t  go  on 
fore\er.  Fill  out  the  coupon  and  mail  today. 


AMERICAN  MERCHANDISING  COMPANY, 

Dept.  SC-140 

9 Madison  Ave.,  Montgemory  4,  Ala. 


DISTRIBUTED  DIRECT 
BY  MAIL  OFFER  SAVES  MONEY 
EXCLUSIVE!  Not  Sold  Elsewhere! 

Cool  and  comfortable,  colorful,  long-wearing  seat  covers 
that  stay  clean  . . . sleek,  genuine  fibre  surfaces  are  lac- 
quer-coated to  resist  dust,  dirt  and  to  make  them  water 
repellent.  Tailored  for  snug,  smooth  fit  with  double 
stitched  seams  and  artificial  leather  trim  for  extra  long 
wear.  Fit  most  cars,  including  1948  models.  Yes,  these 
bright,  sparkling  Scotch  Plaid  Fibre  Seat  Covers  make  old 
cars  look  new  and  keep  new  cars  new-looking  as  they 
protect  clothing  and  keep  upholstery  new-looking  for 
higher  trade-in  value.  Special  ...  3 initials  for  car  door 
included  without  extra  cost.  Mwl  coupon  today! 


Q D C r I Jk  I I Set  of  3 car  initials 

W m Jk  ff  JT%  b • INCLUDCD  WITHOUT  EXTRA  COST 


Simple  to  permanently  j 
mount,  these  chrome 
plate  metal  initials 
glamorize  every  car. 

State  3 initials  you 
want.  Kit  comes  com- 
plete ready  to  use,  entirely  without 
extra  cost.  Mail  coupon  today. 


MAIL 
COUPON. 


AMERICAN  MERCHANDISING  CO., 

Dept.  SC-140 
9 Madison  Ave..  Montgomery  4,  Alo. 

Please  send  me  the  DeLuxe  Seat  Covers  for  car  cheeked  off  below: 


, Model... 


. Year,,., 


Make 

FRONT  SEAT  TYPE;  A B C .. 

CHECK  ^ I am  enclosing  $ In  full  payment.  Send  Postpaid, 

□ Send  C.0.0.  I will  pay  postman  S plus  pcstan. 

NAME 

ADDRESS 


CITY ZONE STATE 

Also  include  CAR  INITIAL  Kit  of  3 initlaU  cusd 
iiguid  adhesive  ter  permanent  mounting 
10  seconds.  Send  these  3 initiols:  Print  Plainly. 


$7.98 


fir 

Ctmtsea  Sw 


?□□□ 


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